I Will Return to You
by Cobweb1
Summary: AU CoS. The Riddle diary opens more than just the Chamber. Restless spirits are awakened, and they're determined to resolve in this lifetime what they could not in their last, over a millennia ago, through two unwilling professors. [SS/OC] Ch.6 up.
1. In Shadows

**I Will Return to You**  
by Cobweb

_Disclaimer:_ Everything contained herein that is also contained in the canon Harry Potter universe is property of J.K. Rowling, and I am making no profit from it. Transcends through all future chapters of the story as well. Rosaline Rosebridge (who, as far as I can tell, is not nor will she turn out to be a Mary Sue; she scored a five on the litmus test. But if she is in fact grotesquely unoriginal, please let me know) and all other original things within are mine. The title is taken from a k's Choice song of the same name.

_Rating:_ PG-13; will most likely rise in future chapters.

_A/N:_ This is an alternate universe story, a semi-rewrite of Chamber of Secrets, and though the main events of that book will remain unchanged, there will be some alterations towards the end. It's sort of a CoS sub-plot, and will revolve for the most part around Severus Snape and a new History of Magic professor, and the anguished spirits of two of the Hogwarts Founders (it's not difficult to guess who). If Snape/OC stories aren't your cup of tea...why did you click on this?

This is my first fic, and reviews and constructive criticism are very welcome and appreciated, as are flames, as long as they consist of something more substantial than a transient case of mouth-to-keyboard Tourette's and more exclamation points than I can shake a stick at. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

_Where, except in the present, can the Eternal be met?  
---C.S. Lewis, "Historicism"_

  
**Chapter 1 - In Shadows**

  
_I think I'm going to be sick._

The thought jabbed lightly against the inside of her skull as she stood in response to the introduction Dumbledore had so generously given her following the Sorting. She swallowed with some difficulty, hoping she wouldn't be expected to speak, or open her mouth for any reason other than to gulp down a glass or ten of wine when she sat down again. She abhorred being the centre of attention, which might lead one to wonder why on Earth she had entered her chosen profession of teaching. "I'm a masochist" was her usual answer to the question. Most people took the remark as an example of flippant sarcasm from a somewhat disgruntled young woman. St. Mungo's had accredited it to a severe case of clinical depression. Either reason suited her fine. She only hoped she would be all right at the front of a classroom. She really did enjoy teaching; it was her calling, and she had been instinctively drawn to it for reasons she had never contemplated long enough to figure out. And she adored her subject.

Rosaline Rosebridge was, to the best of her knowledge, the youngest staff member at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at twenty-eight years old. Up until now, she had been nothing more than a tutor to the offspring of various pure-blood families, normally working with no more than two, perhaps three children at once. But this...this was a thousand different names and faces to learn, two thousand eyes focused on her right now in the Great Hall. She'd forgotten how huge the school was, and couldn't for the life of her fathom why she had ever accepted this position. Why did Binns have to go and request an exorcism? Had he been as bored by his afterlife as much as his students were usually bored by his lectures? She remembered being the only rapt pupil in his class barely ten years ago...

_Oh gods, I _am_ going to be sick..._

Luckily, she escaped with a nod and a small sigh of relief before the headmaster moved on to the other new addition to the Hogwarts faculty sitting next to her, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart. Supposedly, he was quite renowned, though Rosaline had never read any of his books, having not purchased anything published within the last century for nearly a decade now. Lockhart was good-looking to the point of being repellent, almost like a wax statue of stereotypical handsomeness that could walk and talk and, from his brilliant smile and grandiose bow, he rarely spoke of anything not relating to himself.

_Now, now, Rosaline. Remember what Mummy dearest told you: Never judge a book by its cover._

Of course, she mightn't have _read_ Lockhart's books, but she had certainly seen them. Pictures of himself on every cover, winking and smiling in the sort of charming way that could never really be interpreted as sincere. Shallow eyes in every photograph. The other professors seemed as unimpressed as she, though many of the female students appeared to be very taken with him. _O, the green hearts of youth..._

She took a long sip of her wine and lowered her eyes to her empty plate, her body taking offence to the sights and smells of the delicious food that surrounded her. Inwardly, she berated herself for always being so nervous. She stored all of her anxiety and stress in her stomach, something which had been having an adverse effect on her health since she could remember. Tall, pale and thin, with perpetual dark half-circles beneath gloomy blue eyes, her appearance was unflattering in its reflection of her sickly condition, once a constant annoyance that she had eventually ceased to care about. Something of a hypochondriac, Rosaline had a knack for convincing herself she was ill, and even in a spell of relatively good health, often times this was enough to bring about a physical manifestation of her worries. Cold sweats, uncontrollable shivers, fainting, nausea; none of these symptoms were strangers to her. She hated such "episodes," as she had come to call them, but nevertheless could not help dwelling on them.

"Not hungry, dear?" said a voice from beside her, and Rosaline suddenly felt like Little Miss Muffet as she shook herself free from her reveries and turned to regard the short, aging wizard seated to her left on a stack of cushions and books.

"Oh, no, Professor," she murmured quietly, managing a small smile. "I'm feeling a bit too overwhelmed to eat anything."

"Filius, please," Flitwick pleasantly corrected her. "I haven't been your professor for quite some time now. And don't fret over tomorrow; I'm sure you'll do splendidly. When I first began teaching here, I often found it made things easier to imagine myself as a student again. The first-years are all as frightened as you are, and if you survived what they're currently going through, than teaching them seems a much smaller obstacle to overcome."

"I'll try to keep that in mind, thank you."

Flitwick smiled warmly and patted her hand, slipping back into the surrogate father role that was all but second nature to him by now after serving for so long as Ravenclaw's head of house. Rosaline remembered fondly the parties held in the blue- and bronze-bedecked common room brought to a gentle end by the tiny but formidable wizard when she had been one of his charges. His diminutive stature was cause for others to severely underestimate him, and he had enjoyed showing some of the more...rambunctious...students precisely how he had become a world-class duelling champion, always with a chuckle, letting them know that there was no malice in his efforts and winning their respect, but never their fear. Rosaline secretly hoped to one day have that sort of effect on people. Naturally, she would first have to overcome her phobia of them, but it was still a hope.

Her surreptitious admiration of her former head of house was interrupted by a dark figure sweeping dramatically through the doors of the Great Hall and up to the High Table, his sallow face a cold, cynical mask. Obsidian eyes glanced briefly in Rosaline's direction, a slight frown twitching at the corners of the man's mouth as he approached the headmaster and deputy headmistress, as though he were disappointed with her presence.

She studied him as he spoke in muted tones to Dumbledore and McGonagall, catching the word "Potter" and something about the Whomping Willow on the southeast lawn of the school. He was tall, though he probably had no more than two or three inches on her, and looked to be a rather unpleasant individual. Greasy hair hung like a black curtain over his shoulders, half-obscuring his face in shadow, which was marred with lines of discontent, as if he were used to scowling. Yes, this was a man well acquainted with the more disagreeable emotions. A brow often creased with a frown, eyes familiar with narrowing in jealousy and suspicion, and a mouth that looked like it had never been touched by a genuine smile. Rosaline would have bet ten Galleons he was a Slytherin.

"Oh dear," Flitwick sighed as McGonagall's mouth thinned, and her eyes became slits of acute disapproval. Both she and Dumbledore (his own expression grave) rose to follow the dark man out of the dining hall. "It appears as though young Messrs. Potter and Weasley have arrived at last. Minerva's not going to be happy with them."

"Potter?" asked Rosaline. "_Harry_ Potter? What's he done?"

The Charms professor slid a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in her direction. "He missed the train."

Rosaline glanced down at the newspaper, her eyes skimming quickly over the headline. "Flying Ford Anglia mystifies Muggles," she read aloud, then echoed Flitwick's earlier sentiment of "Oh dear."

"Quite."

"Do you think she's going to expel them?"

The short wizard gave a small shrug and took a drink of his pumpkin juice before replying. "Oh, most likely not, though I don't doubt she'd be tempted to, if Mr. Potter's safety wasn't such a large concern for her. For all of us, really."

Rosaline nodded, and was about to ask something more when Gilderoy Lockhart's theatrical voice cut into their conversation.

"Oh, pish-tosh," the blond man scoffed with a fluttery wave of one well manicured hand. "Young Potter should be sleeping like a baby under my own protection. And the protection of the other fine educators here," he added as an afterthought. "Mark my words, there isn't a safer place in the world, now that Gilderoy Lockhart has arrived!"

A few of the female students seated near the High Table swooned. Flitwick deflated somewhat in his seat at the Defence Against the Dark Art's professor's declaration, and Rosaline fought the urge to roll her eyes, suddenly feeling more off colour than she had before. Excusing herself, she stood and left the table, heading for the huge doors that would lead her to the Entrance Hall of the castle.

She was just stepping off of the short staircase that led up to the dining hall with her eyes downcast as she turned sharply left and then collided with a wall of black cloth. Spindly hands came up to grip her arms, then released her almost immediately as if burnt.

"Watch where you're going!" a livid voice hissed, and she mumbled an apology as she raised her gaze, finding herself staring into the same obsidian pools that had caught her eyes not a few minutes earlier. They were visibly angrier now, flashing with impatience and disgust, and not only at her.

"Severus," Dumbledore reprimanded the dark man from behind, "that's hardly the way to make a new acquaintance. Miss Rosebridge, I'd like to introduce Severus Snape, Hogwarts' Potions master and head of Slytherin House. Severus, this is Rosaline Rosebridge. She'll be taking Professor Binns' place as our new History of Magic professor."

Snape ground his teeth together, and willed his mouth to curl back into an insincere sneer. "Pleased to meet you," he spat out the words, which formed a rather obvious lie. "I apologise for my previous discourtesy."

"I-it's all right," Rosaline stammered, simply wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. Something about the Potions master made her feel exceedingly uneasy.

"Retiring for the night already?" Dumbledore queried, a curious twinkle in his eye. "It's early yet."

"Oh, yes. I...I want to be well rested for tomorrow." _Extremely well rested. Dead, even. Perhaps if I was a ghost as Binns was, I wouldn't find this job so daunting..._

The old wizard nodded understandingly. "Very well, then. Good-night, Miss Rosebridge."

Rosaline whispered a short good-night to the two men and continued swiftly on her way to the first of a few staircases that would take her up to her rooms near Ravenclaw Tower. Once she had disappeared from sight, Snape turned to the headmaster and arched a sceptical eyebrow.

"Another Quirrel, Albus? Have you forgotten how the last one turned out?"

Dumbledore smiled minutely. "Ah, Severus. I have every confidence in Professor Rosebridge's teaching capabilities---and her trustworthiness as well. Give her a chance; I'm certain she will prove herself before the year is up."

Snape gave a short grunt of acceptance, though he was still clearly unconvinced. "And your excuse for Lockhart?"

At this, the headmaster chortled cheerily. "Never underestimate the teaching power of laughter---and incompetence," he winked.

A devout believer that nothing positive ever came from incompetence, the Potions master failed to find the humour in this. He also knew when further argument would be an exercise in futility, and merely shook his head with a half weary, half disgusted sigh.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Rosaline sagged against the door within her rooms, her breathing somewhat laboured after making such haste up the seven flights of stairs that had seemed so much easier to climb ten years ago. After a few moments, she pushed off the heavy oak door and made her way towards one of the three trunks containing her personal possessions that she had yet to unpack. Always one to take advantage of procrastination whenever possible, she had managed to put off her arrival at the school until a scant two hours ago, only just before the students themselves were delivered by train.

She relaxed considerably as the seconds ticked by, much more comfortable here, with her solitude and privacy, than in the company of others, especially Severus Snape. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something about the irascible man that caused her stomach to tighten and her throat to close up. Something akin to familiarity, though she was almost certain she had never seen him before in her life. He didn't look very old; perhaps they had been students around the same time, but if that were the case then she was sure she would have remembered anything significant enough about him to provoke such a reaction from her.

She frowned as she rummaged through the first trunk with aid of her wand, directing random garments and everything else onto the large four-poster bed that jutted out from one of the walls. The room was decorated in inoffensive navy blue with a few bronze accents here and there, a silent reminder that pride in one's House was meant to last well beyond one's adolescence. It would have suited her even she hadn't been Sorted into Ravenclaw House---blue was her favourite colour. It was calm, tranquil, everything that she felt she was not and never would be.

"Good evening, Professor Rosebridge."

Rosaline jumped at the wispy foreign voice, her wand falling from her fingers and landing with a soft clatter on the floor. She spun around, one hand flying to her heart in relief at who the intruder was.

"Oh, Lady Jane, you gave me a fright!" she exclaimed. A small, embarrassed smile formed on the Grey Lady's silvery mouth, and she blushed a deep pewter.

"So sorry, my dear. I merely wanted to see how you were settling in. If you would rather I left---"

"No," said Rosaline, quickly. "Please stay. I...it's lovely to see you again. How have you been?"

"Oh, still quite dead," the spectre sighed, the faintest trace of melancholy apparent in her voice as she fingered the dark grey ribbon tied tightly around her throat. Rosaline slumped down on her bed and leaned forward, folding her arms and resting them on her thighs.

"Trade you?" she pleadingly asked the ghost. The Grey Lady smirked and floated over to hover halfway within the living woman's bed.

"I highly advise against it. Being beheaded isn't as glamorous as you might think."

"It doesn't have to be glamorous; it just has to be effective," Rosaline retorted, then shivered when one of the ghost's hands came to rest lightly on her shoulder. She looked up into the spectre's face, contorted into a translucent frown of concern.

"Rosaline, whatever is the cause for so morbid a mood?"

The History of Magic professor shrugged and tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear. "It's this job. I've had a knot in my stomach for two days now worrying about it."

"You're not apprehensive about your teaching abilities, are you? I overheard the Fat Friar and Sir Nicholas saying you were a governess; surely you're not lacking in knowledge of your subject, if well-to-do families are paying you to instruct their children."

Rosaline shook her head. "No, it's not that. It's...it's this _place_. Hogwarts. Like someone bottled the past and put a cork in it."

"Well, that's not entirely untrue," the Grey Lady pointed out, gesturing to herself with a delicate wave of her hand. Rosaline was silent for a few moments, her gaze engrossed in the floor.

"Sometimes I think I already am a ghost," she murmured softly. "I want to be here, I truly do, but I can't help but feel trapped at the same time, like...like this is my home, and it will always be my home, but it feels more like a prison than anything else. I feel like...I feel like I haunt these halls, rather than walk them. Like I'm drifting aimlessly." She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, then glanced up at the Ravenclaw House ghost, whose expression was unreadable. "Does that sound strange to you?"

"How can it?" the Grey Lady enquired, a small, sad smile slowly curving on her lips. "It's much too familiar a story to sound strange to me."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first fortnight of term slipped by like sand through an hourglass that had ensnared her within its crystal borstal, pouring time gradually around her in steadily growing puddles at her feet. Rosaline's odd feeling of entrapment had not faded in the least, though she had found some semblance of relief through her classes, which had surprised her in their simplicity. On the blackboard, she would draw up an outline of the historical period each class was studying, have the students copy it down and then go over the more in-depth aspects of the lesson, lecturing and asking them questions. They had been remarkably well behaved, but she had credited that to their curiosity of Rosaline herself rather than anything actually astonishing and ground-breaking in the way she conducted class. They were used to sleeping through Binns' classes, and thus their expectations for her were relatively low---an enormous weight off her shoulders.

She knew there was a bit of favouritism on her part with the Ravenclaws, whom she especially enjoyed teaching, much more at ease with her own kind than with the methodical but fairly plain-minded Hufflepuffs, extroverted Gryffindors and ever-sneering Slytherins. Another high point of the week had been her successful avoidance of the latter's head of house, whose presence never failed to leave her tense and inexplicably perturbed. He didn't appear to have any interest in speaking with her, either (granted, he didn't appear to have any interest in speaking with any of the faculty members, but she was grateful for his indifference regardless).

At meals, she found herself eating a little more every day, progressively becoming re-accustomed to her surroundings and more composed than she had been upon her arrival. (She had yet to be physically ill, which was something of a blessing.) She began to settle into a routine of seclusion, quietly conversing with Filius Flitwick and the Grey Lady for the most part, though she had had a pleasant discussion with Hypatia Vector on the numerological relevance of the dates of various important historical events, and Dumbledore had come to see how she was settling in on the previous Wednesday evening.

It was her third Monday afternoon at the school, and Rosaline was on her way to the Charms classroom to meet Filius for tea. When she entered the room, she found the tiny old wizard peering into a small mirror and prodding at a large green boil throbbing right between his eyes with the tip of his wand. Rosaline couldn't stifle a chuckle at the sight, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand when her former head of house looked away from his task to glance up at her curiously.

"Ah, Rosaline, excellent. Just let me fix this and I'll tend to the kettle..."

"I can manage the kettle," she offered, tapping her wand on the pot of the white China tea set decorated with pretty blue periwinkles already set out on one of the desks. "How on Earth did you manage to acquire _that_?" she asked, indicating the boil with a vague motion to her eyes.

Flitwick sighed, but smiled in amusement. "Young Ronald Weasley's wand attacked me of its own volition. Apparently, it was broken in the battle with the Whomping Willow during the start-of-term feast, and Spellotape was the best he could come up with to patch it. And they say it's the wizards, not the wands, that harm..."

Rosaline chuckled again, silently this time, her shoulders shaking as she hid a grin behind her hand.

"Oh, go ahead and laugh," Flitwick relented, chortling a bit himself, "it's the first time you've done so since you arrived."

She did as she was told, sobering only after the Charms professor had successfully rid himself of the boil and the tea was properly steeped and ready to serve. They sat opposite each other, and as Flitwick poured, Rosaline helped herself to a shortbread biscuit, nibbling on the treat as if it were the only thing she would be permitted to eat all day.

"Consider yourself lucky," said Flitwick as he plopped two sugar lumps into her teacup. "Out of all of the subjects offered at Hogwarts, I'd say yours has one of the lowest mortality rates. Milk?"

"No, thank you. And that depends on your point of view. I doubt Professor Binns would agree, were he still here. Besides, history is, for all intents and purposes, the study of ghosts."

"Touché, Professor Rosebridge, touché. Is that why you and Lady Jane often consort together?"

Rosaline tilted her head contemplatively, and answered after a few moments, "...no, I don't think so. When I attended school here, I was a something of an insomniac---I still am---I'd be up most of the night in the common room. Reading, mostly. Lady Jane would sometimes float in and keep me company," she explained. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"You know," said Flitwick, poking at the slice of lemon bobbing at the surface of his tea, "most Muggle children fear the dark because of ghosts. It is a curious opposite for a magical child to look forward to the night for the same reason."

"Perhaps Muggle ghosts differ from magical ghosts."

Flitwick raised one bushy white eyebrow. "A tormented soul is a tormented soul, Rosaline, in life and in death, with or without the presence of magic."

The History of Magic professor gave a small nod of concession and peered pensively into her cup. "Hogwarts has many restless spirits," she murmured softly. "Why do you suppose that is?"

The little wizard thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Hogwarts is a very old school. Over a thousand years' worth of emotion are contained within its halls, both positive and negative. Not everyone's years here were the best of their lives. Some people are simply destined to be unhappy; it's not a pleasant thought, but it is a statistical fact."

"Hypatia Vector cornered you recently, didn't she?" Rosaline smirked wryly. Flitwick breathed a weary sigh.

"Directly after lunch. Today's topic was on the affects of wrist angles and the dimensions of one's wand on duelling. I believe Professor Lockhart put the idea into her head; he's been prattling on about starting up the Duelling Club again for days now. Heaven only knows why---he was atrocious at everything but Memory Charms in his school days."

"Mm, yes," Rosaline agreed, taking another nibble of shortbread. "I've overheard a few of my students discussing his...lessons---why does that word sound almost dirty used in relation to Lockhart?---the girls are normally enraptured by him. The boys find him utterly ridiculous. I'm just glad I haven't had to deal with him one-on-one yet. Any history text that doesn't have his name written in it somewhere is of no interest to him, apparently."

Flitwick finished off his tea and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "I expect him to approach me on the subject of the Duelling Club soon enough. I will, of course, hex him all the way from here to the Entrance Hall in response." He winked, and Rosaline laughed---it still felt a little bizarre to be openly conversing with the man who had once been both teacher and part-time mentor to her. She was certain he would never say such things about Lockhart in the company of his charges, and she felt almost privileged to now be allowed to view him in this more informal light.

"It's almost a point of shame to Slytherin House," the Charms professor continued, "that he's currently one of their most celebrated alumni, though he was never satisfied with his Sorting. Felt he belonged in Gryffindor, but the hat would have none of it. He all but denounced his own House in favour of Gryffindors---thought they were better. Normally, that would be a cardinal sin to Slytherins, but they seemed more than happy encourage his disloyalty. To sever all ties with the black sheep of the family, so to speak."

"How curious," Rosaline commented, her eyes narrowed in new suspicion of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. "He seems to have acquired a lot of glory for a turncoat."

"Well..." Flitwick lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned forward, "there are some who believe that the glory was not originally his."

The witch arched an eyebrow. "He stole it?" she hissed, getting a transient thrill out of the little mystery. "How?"

"Oh, but I really shouldn't speak ill of my colleagues," Flitwick smiled, feigning reluctance. "He was merely a boy who was very adept at Memory Charms."

Rosaline caught on quickly, a sly smirk slipping over her face. "Of course. Just because he's famous now after having accomplished so many _unbelievable_ feats of bravery and intelligence doesn't mean a thing."

"Quite right, my dear, quite right." He released a hoot of laughter he'd been holding inside, clutching his sides and nearly doubling over. It took him a few minutes to finally calm down, and when he did he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and let out a lengthy sigh. "I must say, I wouldn't mind hearing Severus' thoughts on the matter, if only for a good chuckle."

Rosaline stiffened slightly at the Potions master's name. Flitwick, being of a very perceptive mind, noticed her attempt to hide her disquiet by gulping down the last of her tea after a few moments' humourless staring at the top of the desk.

"I'm sensing an air of agitation," he noted, his demeanour shifting quickly from friendly acquaintance to protective head of house nigh instantaneously. "Have you not gotten on well with Professor Snape?"

The History of Magic professor averted her gaze to the floor as her stomach knotted up at the subject matter. Inwardly, she cursed herself, and resolved to develop more emotional stealth in the future. As it was, she knew from having spent seven years under the tiny wizard's watchfulness that once he detected a problem with one of his students---or former students, as the case may have been---there was no getting out of disclosing her vexations to him. The Ravenclaw trait of perfectionism and attention to detail made sure of that.

"Truth be told," she began in a quiet voice, "we haven't gotten on much at all. We've only ever spoken once, when the headmaster introduced us as I was leaving the Great Hall at the start-of-term feast. I don't really know him, I just...I just get this strange feeling whenever he's around. It's almost residual, something not quite familiar, but not quite...not. Am I making any sense?"

Flitwick frowned. "Not yet, but do go on."

She shifted in her seat and chewed meditatively on her bottom lip as she tried to place the words in the right order in her mind before she spoke again. "He gives me the creeps is all, like some great bat that swoops down out of the shadows just for the sake of frightening people."

"Some great familiar bat, as though he's 'swooped down', as you said, and frightened you before?"

"Precisely. Like déjà vu. I don't like it; it makes my skin crawl. If I ever did know him, with a feeling like that I certainly have no desire to again."

Flitwick hummed and stroked his beard ponderingly, his frown deepening. "How very peculiar...however I don't think you need to worry about Severus swooping down on you. He does have something of a dark past, but he is, I believe, a good man at heart, if a little...prickly. Perhaps this feeling will pass with time?"

"Perhaps," Rosaline acquiesced, though an uncomfortable sinking feeling in her stomach had her doubting the old wizard's assumptions.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His footfalls echoed light, rhythmic thuds as Severus Snape strode down the empty, shadowy corridor that would take him to the staffroom, where he had left one of the books he was reading, an advanced study on the applications of Transfigurations to various potions and their ingredients. He was not normally so absent-minded as to leave his things---even the relatively harmless ones---lying about for anyone to look through or make off with. Lately, however...lately _she_ had been making what was usually habitual for him into what he had to struggle to remember, whenever she was around.

He'd not spoken a word to Rosaline Rosebridge since their introduction three weeks previous, and had already decided that he would strive to uphold that silence. There was something about that woman, something infuriating that he couldn't quite place, couldn't quite put his finger on. Her mere presence was enough to make him bristle with suspicion and distrust, as though she were some old enemy of his rather than a relatively new acquaintance. He would have watched her like a hawk, if he only could have stood to look at her for more than a few seconds without shivering from some perplexing apprehension.

That, on top of the endless annoyance that was Gilderoy Lockhart, and Minerva McGonagall's far too merciful punishment of Potter and Weasley following the incident with the Ford Anglia and the Whomping Willow (though Mrs. Weasley's Howler had been an amusing, if fleeting, distraction), had Snape feeling distinctly sour, even more so than usual. A constant headache had plagued him for the last two weeks, and now, as his temples throbbed in time with his footsteps, its chances of making it to three weeks looked exasperatingly high. Tension headaches had a notoriously great resistance to curative potions; there was nothing else for it but sleep and relaxation. Unfortunately for Snape, he had earned the title of insomniac well before the age of eleven.

Having never considered himself one of the luckiest individuals on the planet, it should have been no surprise for him to discover that he was not the only one awake and interested in the staffroom at the hour of twelve that night, and even less of a surprise as to who else it was who occupied it. His jaw clenched painfully after he'd opened the staffroom door and found none other than the new History of Magic professor lounging in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, which was lit and crackling, the only light in the room, casting a dim orange glow over her figure as she sipped from a teacup and turned the page of the book she was reading. A book that looked suspiciously like the one he had come to retrieve.

_Of course,_ he thought to himself, his inner monologue tinged with distaste, _a Ravenclaw _would_ read anything that came within his or her line of sight, regardless of ownership._

She glanced up at him briefly, her eyes wide and startled like a deer caught in the headlights of a Muggle car. Snape himself seemed rooted to his spot in the threshold, and for what could have been an hour or only a moment, their stares were locked together in an ephemeral separation from space and time.

Rosaline was the first to move, closing the book guiltily and gesturing at it with a slightly shaking hand.

"I-is...is this yours?" she asked him, looking mildly annoyed with herself as she swallowed down her stutter. "I found it on the table in the back of the room. It's very interesting."

At last, Snape found his voice lurking shadily within his suddenly dry throat, and nodded once, an irate scowl etched deeply into his features. "I know. Hence my desire to have it back," he growled shortly. 

The witch held the book out for him to take with a barely audible "I'm sorry." She flinched when Snape stalked over and snatched it out of her hand.

_Is she afraid of me?_ he wondered, and found himself pleased by the notion, a cold sneer twisting his mouth. "Good-night, Professor Rosebridge," he silkily hissed, bowing tersely and eliciting another cringe from the young woman.

"Good-night," she whispered, tearing her eyes away from him to study the warm orange pops and sizzles of the fire.

Snape turned and sauntered back towards the door, and had only just opened it when something small and white sailed past his head to crash against the wall with the sound of shattering China. He spun around in alarm---Rosaline was on her feet and glaring at him, looking grief-stricken and enraged. Snape realised vaguely that she had just attempted to accost him with her teacup, but hardly had time to be confused before she was shouting at him with a volume he would never have guessed her to possess.

"No! You cannot leave! I will _not_ let you leave me!"

"Miss Rosebridge!" Snape barked after a stunned moment, amazed his voice had not left him again. "Would you kindly explain to me _what the hell it is you're on about_?"

A sudden chill passed through the staffroom like a wave of ice water, there one second and gone the next, ebbing just as quickly as it had come. Snape shuddered involuntarily and shut his eyes to push the feeling away. When he opened them again, he found that Rosaline had not moved from her place, though her expression had changed. Her face had blanched white, and she was staring at him with large, astonished eyes, her mouth parted as if she wished to speak, but could not find her words.

"Miss Rosebridge?" he ventured again, his voice quieter now, more puzzled than angry. He was beginning to wonder if she had somehow managed to perform a full body-bind on herself when at last she moved, walking quickly toward him, then pushing past him and into the hall, where she broke out into a run, her pale robes whipping back behind her.

Snape watched her go until she reached the end of the corridor and turned a fast left, presumably heading for her rooms. He frowned deeply and shivered once more as a final ripple of the icy presence passed through him. What had just happened?

"Leave it to Albus to always hire the most qualified and least sane," he muttered to himself, though the words sounded hollow. More disturbing than Rosaline's hysterical outburst was his own transitory and eerily foreign urge to chase after her, like mental shove in her direction. He shook his head, willing the more familiar feeling of aggravation to slowly flood back into his mind.

He resolved to see Dumbledore if something akin to this...whatever it had been, happened again. He was certain he would shed no tears over Rosaline's departure if he could indeed prove her mentally unfit to be teaching children and adolescents. Such unfounded flarings of temper were most disconcerting, nearly as disconcerting as his own momentary compassion for her. Not concern, per say; more like...remorse? Regret? Guilt?

Snape drove the thought away in disgust, extinguished the fire in the fireplace with a wave of his wand, and left the scene of the crime for his dungeons, where the cold air would only further his annoyance as it reminded him of what he rebelled against acknowledging.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The door to her private chambers slammed loudly shut behind her, making her ears ring. Her face burned with embarrassment, fear, and lingering fury and hurt that she had no reason to feel.

She'd been frozen, paralysed, and most definitely _not_ in control of herself. What had possessed her to say those things, and to _him_, no less?

Rosaline suddenly felt as though she might retch, and went into her bathroom to splash her face with cool water that felt nonetheless warm against her clammy skin. He thought her mad---he had to---_she_ thought herself mad!

Weakly, she braced herself against the sink and stared at her moonlit reflection in the mirror. Droplets of water crept along her skin, running little trails down her neck and into the collar of her robes like tears. Her eyes looked strangely bloodshot, as if she'd been crying, and yet she was certain she had not, though the harsh, enduring ache in her chest felt like it might soon fix that.

"Damn it," she breathed to her likeness, tightening her grip on the edges of the sink until her knuckles turned waxen to stave off the tremors strumming through her body as if she were a string in a harp being plucked and played. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with _me_," her reflection replied, "but _you'll_ catch your death of cold if you don't dry off and get some rest."

Rosaline exhaled slowly and straightened up---her large bed with its thick down coverings did look rather inviting, though she sincerely doubted she would be able to get so much as a wink of sleep tonight. Deciding to take the cheeky mirror's advice, she patted her face and neck dry with a towel before returning to her bedroom to unlace and remove her boots. 

After crawling beneath the covers, she nestled herself into the overstuffed pillows near the headboard, curling around them, making a sort of nest for herself, a habit she'd retained since childhood. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture everything but the events she had just fled from. Flitwick's boil, Lockhart's pompous declarations, her conversations with the Grey Lady...

No, not the Grey Lady. The thought of the ghost's chilly hand on her shoulder brought back the smothering feeling of the odd episode in the staffroom.

_How queer that the two things would feel so similar... _Rosaline mused, cocooning herself more tightly within the covers. _I will speak with her about it tomorrow. I only hope she doesn't believe me to be as mad as I do..._


	2. In Dreams

**Chapter 2 - In Dreams**

  
"...and then I just sort of...froze up. I hadn't a clue what to do, so after gaping at him like a fish out of water for a few seconds, I ran. It was so..._creepy_."

Rosaline shuddered as she finished recounting the events of the previous night to the Grey Lady, who was hovering in a sitting position just above a blue velvet upholstered chair in the History of Magic professor's private chambers, frowning anxiously and fingering the ribbon 'round her neck.

"How very strange indeed," she said after a moment.

"Isn't it, though?" sighed Rosaline, as she sat back in her seat. "I don't want to sound insulting, but...it felt like you do. Not you in particular, but like a ghost. It was so cold, and so..." she trailed off, picking at an invisible bit of fluff on her robes.

"Unearthly?" the Grey Lady offered.

"...sad. And angry. Heartbroken. Do you think...do you think it was some sort of possession?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," the spectre said softly. "A spirit would had to have been very powerful in life to be able to possess a person in death."

"Hogwarts has been home to many powerful witches and wizards," Rosaline pointed out, remembering her conversation with Flitwick the day before. "Something traumatic might have happened to one of them here. But if that is the case, why would he or she surface _now_? The last extremely powerful wizard to attend this school was You-Know-Who, and he was proven to still be alive last year, if only in the loosest sense of the word. And besides, I can't really see him mourning over love's labours lost, even as a student."

The Grey Lady looked uncertain. "Perhaps you should see the headmaster about it?"

"What, two and a half weeks into my tenure here? What would I say? 'Hello, Professor Dumbledore. I've just begun working here and I fear I'm being possessed by an anonymous ghost prone to violent outbursts. Pay no attention to my brief residency in an asylum for the mentally unwell and believe me without a second thought'? No thank you. I'd much rather keep my job."

"An asylum?!" the Ravenclaw ghost exclaimed, one hand flying to her mouth, aghast. "You? Whatever for?"

_Oh, stupid! Why can't you learn to hold your tongue in private? You do so well with it in public..._ Rosaline shut her eyes briefly in a wince, her hands balling unconsciously into fists around the sleeves of her robes as the memories rushed back into her mind for a moment before she forced them away. "It was a long time ago. I was under a lot of stress---or at least I thought I was---and I just...broke down. But I got over it, and have been relatively balanced for five years now. Until last night, at any rate. Gods, I hope I'm not losing it again..." She sighed and slumped forward, rubbing her temples tiredly.

"Oh, Rosaline," the Grey Lady murmured, "you're not. I'm positive you're not. Possessions are extremely rare, yes, but they're not impossible. And if it was so fleeting, then chances are it either won't return, or will jump to another host, in which case you won't be the only one with such a claim."

Not bloody likely, Rosaline inwardly groused, but kept quiet. Blatant pessimism would get her nowhere with this. Instead, she gave the ghost a wan smile. "I would be eternally thankful were I to be so lucky. Thank you, milady."

The Grey Lady smiled in return, then arched an eyebrow as Rosaline stood. "Are you leaving?"

"I'm afraid so---I've got a class in ten minutes."

"Ah, of course. Shall I accompany you downstairs, then?"

"Please," Rosaline nodded. "I would enjoy that very much."

The two women made their way out of the room, Rosaline closing and locking the door behind them, and began their descent to the first floor of the castle.

~*~*~*~*~*~

What remained of September drifted past without further incident, much to the relief of both parties involved in the staffroom phenomenon. Neither Severus nor Rosaline had spoken to each other of the odd occurence, though one would occasionally catch the other in a calculating stare (she had no doubt that he thought her mad; she thought him correct), which was enough to put both of them on edge with shudders of discontent and wariness. Rosaline especially had all but given up any attempts at food or sleep, sometimes doubled up with the tight discomfort that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her stomach, and that amplified with every thought of the Potions master that crossed her overactive mind.

Thus, it seemed only natural that when the beginning of October brought with it a damp chill throughout the castle, she was one of the first to take ill, and one of the last be treated. For all her paranoia concerning her health, her time spent in St. Mungo's had given her an aversion to hospitals in any shape or form. In this manner, she resisted every effort made by both the Grey Lady and Professor Flitwick to get her to see Madam Pomfrey for a good dose of Pepperup potion, saying that she never felt well anyway and that there was little point in seeking out a medicinal remedy for something she could and was practically familiar with suffering through.

She got through her classes all right, assigning written work and rarely leaving her desk so as not to draw attention to her weak, shaky muscles by standing and writing on the blackboard. However, it didn't take long for her appearance to shift from "sickly" to "downright horrible," to the point where whatever pains she went to in order to conceal how awful she truly felt became futile. She was deathly pale but for a bright cherry flush of fever colouring her cheeks and forehead, the circles beneath her eyes were darkened, and her hair---normally swept back into a neat chignon with a few strands left free down her back---was unkempt, tangled and messily pinned up.

It was on a Thursday morning near the middle of the month that her body finally decided to force her to acknowledge its infirmity, not allowing her to so much as leave her bed.

Groaning, Rosaline rolled over on her side, wrapping the covers around herself as tightly as she could and shivering, her head searing hot and the rest of her freezing cold. A painful cough wracked her frail form, rattling through her throat which felt as though it had been rubbed down with steel wool. She felt like she was slipping in and out of time, in and out of a consciousness that her mind clung to and her body fought against. She was scarcely aware of a half frantic voice calling her name at some point, and recoiled sharply as something that felt like a glacial breath hissed over her shoulder and then drew quickly away.

She floated along in a daze, her eyes halfway open and not registering most of what was going on in her surroundings. She was vaguely aware that she was not alone---someone else was there, bustling around at first and then pressing a glass to her lips. The liquid within it stunk of foul herbs that made her stomach churn, and she pushed the glass away and buried her face in her pillow.

"Oh no you don't," an annoyed but concerned voice snapped, and suddenly warm hands were turning her over onto her back, gently but very firmly. They tilted her head back and closed over her nose, and before she could think clearly enough to protest the glass was at her mouth again and tipping the fetid liquid down her gullet. Rosaline choked and coughed excruciatingly, certain she was going to be sick as her leaden eyes closed and she sank back down into the pillows, and into an abrupt, deep slumber.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Excuse me, Professor Snape? May I have a word with you?"

The Potions master paused in his interrogation of fourth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs on the uselessness of their taking the Wit-Sharpening Potion that was their assignment for the day, and turned to glare at the interrupting wraith hovering near the back of his classroom. "This had better be of dire importance," he growled as he stalked toward the door.

"It is, sir, I assure you," the Grey Lady nodded, one hand clutched in a fist near her throat, looking very fretful.

They left the room, Snape halting once at the threshold to cast a dangerous scowl at his students, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan in particular, who were looking a bit too eager about their armadillo bile. "Do not move, do not think, do not so much as breathe until I return, or you'll be spending Christmas in detention whether you're planning on going home for the holidays or not," he warned them, then followed the Ravenclaw ghost out into the dungeon corridor.

"It's Professor Rosebridge," she explained before he could ask. "The poor thing's terribly ill---"

"And how is that any concern of mine?" Snape cut in, his irritation multiplying tenfold with the knowledge that that damnable madwoman had now managed to disrupt not only his thoughts, but his work as well.

The Grey Lady looked delicately horrified, a confounded and disapproving frown distorting her pretty face. "It is your concern," she said slowly, her anger evident in her voice, "because Madam Pomfrey has run out of Salveoserum. She asked me to come down here to see if you happened to have any on hand, and if you did, to ask you to bring it up to Professor Rosebridge's rooms as soon as possible."

Snape breathed a heavy, annoyed sigh and ran a hand through his greasy hair, contemplating the amount of time he could get away with prolonging the History of Magic professor's suffering, and the odds of his deliberate procrastination getting back to the headmaster. With the incensed look the Grey Lady was giving him, he figured not very long, and very high. Dumbledore would be displeased with such a mean-spirited show of pettiness: Deducting House points right and left from students that weren't his own was one thing; it was quite another to knowingly suspend the convalescence of a fellow teacher, regardless of his personal opinion of her. _Better to have her indebted to me than to be made to apologise to her for my...reluctance._

"I have the potion," he begrudgingly admitted, a resentful glower settling on his features, "but I can't take it up just yet. In case you hadn't noticed, you did interrupt me in the middle of teaching a class."

"I can watch your class until you return." It was an order, not an offer, but Snape objected to it nevertheless.

"Milady, I would prefer you did not. This class contains both Fred and George Weasley, who, I believe you are aware, cannot be left under the supervision of anyone unwilling to bestow upon them only the strictest punishments for their antics."

The Grey Lady floated a few inches higher and looked down on the Potions master imposingly. "And I believe _you_ are aware that I was the queen of England for nine days. If I can manage a country, I'm certain a pair of boisterous teenage boys will not pose much of a challenge."

Snape resisted the urge to spitefully comment how well the spectre's short stint as queen had turned out, but grazed pointedly over the ribbon around her neck with his eyes. "As you wish," he surrendered, his voice a low hiss of dubious malice, and started for his office across the hall as the Grey Lady retreated into the Potions classroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_Weightless._

She was weightless, floating beneath the frozen surface of a lake, or maybe an ocean. Was she drowning? Or had she already drowned? It was difficult to tell...

Fish swam alongside her, if swimming was what one could call it. They glided past on their own currents, their fins still, their gills making no attempts to puff for breath. Brilliant blues and greens, reds and yellows, all of them content to simply let the tide carry them where it may. She wasn't sure if she was envious of them, or if she pitied them. Was she trapped, or was she motionless of her own will?

Either way, she was cold, cold and unhappy. With her face upturned, she stared through the glasslike barrier between her world and the other. The dry world, in which He walked. She was certain she would no longer be cold, if only she had Him to warm her.

Damn it, He was right there_, right on the other side of the ice, peering down at her with an impassive expression. She reached up to touch Him, to run a hand along His cheek, but felt only the chilled wall that separated them. Why couldn't she reach Him?_

And then His expression changed, rippled from one lacking emotion to one of wounded pride, anger and hurt. The image of His face faded as He rose, and began to walk away. 

No!_ she thought frantically, _No! Please! Please don't leave me! Stay! Stay with me, please! Don't go!__

She opened her mouth to call out to Him, but she had no breath to speak, and no way for Him to hear her. The ice was too thick.

I will break through, _she thought,_ I will break through, and I will find him, and I will _make_ him stay with me!

_She hit the ice, her motions slowed by the water. Madly, she punched and clawed at the barrier, scraping and bruising her knuckles until they ached, until they numbed. Blood curled through the water in translucent ribbons of red, and still she lashed out._

A hairline fracture spider-webbed through the ice with a quiet crackle.

Yes! I'm so close...I'm almost there, I can feel it...

~*~*~*~*~*~

Madam Pomfrey frowned reproachfully at her patient, whose face was creased in discomfort as she slept, when a knocking that could only be described as cantankerous resonated through the door. As ghosts weren't prone to knocking, she knew instantly who it was, and answered it with some relief.

"Severus, finally," she said, standing back to allow the dark man entrance into Rosaline's private rooms. "Do you have the Salveoserum?"

"Of course I have it," Snape snapped, scowling daggers at the medi-witch as he handed over a small corked bottle of pinkish liquid. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Pomfrey ignored his tetchiness and set about measuring a dose of the potion in a small glass cup barely larger than a thimble. Severus took the opportunity to saunter over to the History of Magic professor's bed, curiosity and a slight enthusiasm at seeing her in poor health getting the better of his instinct to return immediately to his students in a show of how very little he cared about his colleague's wellbeing.

She did not look her best, to say the least. Her face was pink and blotchy, her black hair matted and clinging to her forehead and neck with sweat. Every so often, she would whimper, obviously in some sort of pain, and would stir in vain, trying to find some semblance of comfort. Snape frowned uneasily---the sight, much to his disquiet and apprehension, did not leave him as satisfied as he had expected it to.

"Severus?" Pomfrey's voice sliced through his thoughts, startling him out of his unnerving realisation. His gaze shifted toward the medi-witch questioningly. "I sedated her," she told him. "She's not going to be waking up for some time. You can go now, and thank you for the potion."

Snape nodded curtly and turned to leave, getting only a few steps away when the sound of breaking glass echoed familiarly in his ears. He spun around---Rosaline was thrashing wildly around in her bed; she'd knocked the Salveoserum out of Pomfrey's hand and sent it crashing to the floor. _Wasteful little wench..._

"Snape, help me!" Pomfrey barked, simultaneously trying to dodge the limbs lashing out at her and hold them down. 

The Potions master glided quickly to her aid, bracing one knee on the bed as he slipped his hands along Rosaline's shoulders and down her arms to hold them still. Her skin was burning hot beneath his own.

"No!" she protested, arching up off the bed as she scrambled to pull free from his grip. "Please!"

"I thought you said she wasn't going to be waking up for some time?" he growled at Pomfrey, who was all but sitting on the other woman's legs to keep them from kicking out at her.

"I don't think she _is_ awake," the medi-witch replied, uncorking a bottle filled with a deep violet potion with her teeth.

"Please don't leave me!" Rosaline exclaimed, her voice cracking. 

Her words hit Severus like Bludger to his skull. His hold on her loosened, and she took advantage, twisting out of his grasp completely and swinging blindly at the air with her fists, one of which made contact firmly with his left cheekbone, jarring him back to reality. He caught her wrists and pinned them roughly at her sides, absently noting that the skin on the inside of both was rough and raised---scar tissue.

"Ooh, watch out, there," Pomfrey chuckled, now very much sitting on the other woman's legs as she poured out a second dose of the Salveoserum into the tiny glass she'd mended with her wand. "She's got quite a left hook."

"Just shut up and sedate her again," he snarled, pressing down harder on Rosaline's wrists.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_He was waiting for her, she knew. She could see Him right on the periphery of her vision. Oh gods, she was so close, and He was so near, His dark robes and hair whipping back in a faint breeze as He watched her struggle. He was waiting for her, but He was growing impatient. She was taking too long, far too long._

She felt herself becoming weaker with every punch. Why wouldn't the ice just break already?

She couldn't lose Him, not when she was this close, not when...

A bitter taste formed in her mouth, and she weakened further, her punches becoming mere taps on the surface of her frozen prison. She was paralysed, sinking down into the water's black depths. She couldn't move---why couldn't she move?! She had to fight! She had to break free! Why wouldn't her body obey her?

No!_ her mind screamed. _Let me go! I wasn't finished yet! Damn it, _no_!__

But it was too late---she'd already sunk so far, spiralling down into the darkening water, the only crack she'd been able to make in the ice becoming smaller and smaller the deeper she sank, until it became so dark that she could not see at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Severus slowly relaxed his hold on the young witch as she gradually calmed down from the effects of the Salveoserum diluted in a Sleep-Inducing Draught, one of her hands clutching limply at one of his. She didn't resist when he extracted his fingers from her lifeless grip.

Her face was more tranquil than it had been before, though the small frown lines between and around her eyes remained, telling of her continuing physical misery. But as he watched, even those faded as she slipped deeper into unconsciousness, until she looked like any other sleeping woman save for the ongoing flush of her cheeks.

"If she stirs from that," said Pomfrey, "I'll grow a third arm."

"What she said..." Snape trailed off, not taking his eyes off of the History of Magic professor, as if he didn't trust the medi-witch's assurance that another outburst from her was next to impossible in her current drugged state.

"A vivid dream, probably due to the fever." Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "It's so infuriating when people are excessively stubborn in regards to their health. A dose of Pepperup potion the moment she started feeling less than one hundred percent could have prevented this, but no, people have to think they can tough it out without any assistance..." She sighed, muttering under her breath something about the inconsiderateness of the obstinate, but Snape wasn't really listening to her, his attention focused elsewhere, on Rosaline and the last words she'd spoken.

That was the second time she'd asked him not to leave her. 

_Someone else, a person unknown; _not _me,_ he told himself. _Both instances just happened to be in my presence. It means nothing._

He could have chalked it up to a general imbalance in the chemistry of her mind---_wanted_ to chalk it up to that; it would have made things much easier, much more cut and dry---but he couldn't help but feel that there was a gaping hole in that particular theory.

Things were never so easy for Severus Snape, and rarely---very rarely---were they ever cut and dry. There was something else here, some mysterious variable that would explain why these outbursts of hers seemed to only ever occur in his presence (as he had heard of no other instances of anything similar happening between her and one of the other staff members, and in a school like Hogwarts, with the exception of himself and occasionally Minerva McGonagall, people were prone to talking---at great length, no matter if the person they were speaking to was interested in what they had to say or not).

Some mysterious variable that would explain the sudden and very alien inclination of concern he harboured for her welfare.

Now that she was sleeping soundly, Snape glanced sideways at Pomfrey. The medi-witch was busying herself with her small brown leather satchel, replacing the empty potion bottles on the other woman's bedside table within it. Hesitantly, he leaned forward on the bed once more and lifted up one of Rosaline's hands, turning it over palm-up to confirm his suspicions. A jagged scar, beginning at the base of her palm to nearly one-quarter of the way up her forearm, lined her wrist. A vertical cut, and a deep one---she had been serious when she had made it. He didn't need to check her other wrist to know that it held a twin mark.

He had to consciously will his face into a disgusted sneer. To a creature of logic such as he, suicide was one of the most appalling acts a person could attempt, right next to love. Both were completely pointless, nothing but eventual loss at either end. He'd been tempted by the idea of suicide before, in darker days, but his furiously rational mind had rebelled against it just before that particular poison could touch his lips. He'd been too revolted with his own weakness to allow it to continue; it was an insult to his intellect, and that was the one thing he had never ceased to take pride in. Any person stupid enough to actually follow through with such a worthless deed as suicide was deserving of their fate, and the details surrounding their decision were of neither consequence nor care to him.

Thus, when he found himself curious as to what could have possibly driven her to cause the ugly white lines disfiguring her pallid wrists, he dropped her hand immediately and swept out of the room. The Grey Lady would be wondering what was keeping him so long in absentia.

~*~*~*~*~*~

There was indeed no need for Madam Pomfrey to grow a third arm---Rosaline did not wake again until noon the next day. She blinked the residual burn of sleep from her eyes blearily, and grimaced at the sour taste in her mouth before realising that she felt a great deal better than she had the last time she had regained consciousness. Her fever had broken, and aside from her stiff and aching muscles from having been asleep for so long, she felt rather refreshed, despite being in dire need of a toothbrush.

"Awake at last," said a soft, slightly echoing voice to her left. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Rosaline croaked as she sat up in bed and languidly stretched, rotating her neck and curling her toes before suddenly freezing, her eye widening with panic. "Oh, bloody hell---what time is it?" she demanded of the ghost sitting patiently at her bedside.

"About ten minutes past twelve o'clock, I believe," the Grey Lady answered, standing as Rosaline hurriedly struggled to disentangle herself from the covers.

"Damn it," the young witch swore under her breath, "my classes, I can't believe I---"

"Rosaline," the ghost interrupted. "It's Friday."

The History of Magic professor blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "Friday?! But---you mean to tell me I slept through all of Thursday---the headmaster---I missed---" she stammered, her panic doubling. "I can't believe I---Dumbledore's going to sack me!"

"Calm yourself, child!" the Grey Lady urged, floating in front of the flustered woman. "You still have your job. When I didn't see you at breakfast yesterday, I came up here to see if anything was wrong, and found that you'd taken quite ill. I informed Madam Pomfrey and then the headmaster of your condition. All is well."

"All is _not_ well!" Rosaline exclaimed. "That was hugely irresponsible of me, abandoning my students---oh, goodness, my students---who's been teaching my classes?"

"Ah," the ghost sighed, looking apprehensive for the first time since Rosaline had awakened, "I believe Professor Lockhart volunteered to undertake that task."

Rosaline's eyes widened further, horrified. "Lockhart?! You can't be serious! Oh, I need to get down there...gods only know what rubbish he's been filling their heads with..." She quickly ducked into her bathroom, not bothering to shut the door as she scrubbed her face with icy water to bring herself fully into the conscious world. The Grey Lady followed, hovering in the threshold.

"What you _need_ to do is return to your bed and rest," she said adamantly.

"I've been sleeping for more than a day," Rosaline retorted, squeezing a bit of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. "I'm not going to get anymore rested." As if on cue, she turned her head and coughed hoarsely into her hand. The spectre arched a disbelieving eyebrow at her.

"You're still not completely healed---"

"I'll never be 'completely healed'."

"---and unless you're itching for a relapse, you will return to your bed and continue on with healing peacefully, or I will inform Madam Pomfrey of your stubbornness and she _will_ chain you to a bed in the hospital wing until you are well again."

Rosaline paused, toothbrush suspended in front of her mouth, and eyed the Grey Lady sceptically. "You wouldn't."

"I'm dead, dear; I've got nothing to lose."

The young witch gaped at the ghost for a few moments, trying to decipher whether or not the phantom was having her on. The Grey Lady's stern expression did not waver, her back straight, regal and unyielding. "...you are wicked!" Rosaline gasped accusingly. The Grey Lady merely smiled.

"Don't be preposterous, I haven't a wicked bone in my body."

"You have no bones," the History of Magic professor muttered before petulantly shoving the toothbrush into her mouth. Satisfied that her living friend would not make an escape attempt anytime in the near future, the Grey Lady drifted back to the chair she had been sitting in.

A couple of minutes later, Rosaline emerged from her bathroom (_Blessed menthol-mouth._) and crawled back onto the bed, propping herself up with a few pillows against the massive oak headboard and looking to the ghost with a sigh and a small fit of coughing.

"All right, since I'm going to be held captive, would you mind telling me all that went on yesterday?" she asked. "I'm afraid I can't remember much of anything, other than fragments of an odd dream where I was trapped in beneath the ice in a frozen lake or something."

"Well," the spectre started, "as I said before, I found you lacking in coherence during breakfast and fetched Madam Pomfrey from the hospital wing. She was...displeased with your condition---you can expect a lecture on _that_ the next time you see her."

Rosaline frowned, sinking a little deeper into the pillows. "How lovely."

The Grey Lady continued, "She had run out of Salveoserum, and so she sent me to have Professor Snape bring some up, as he usually has a few healing potions on-hand in case of emergencies."

Roseline's frown intensified. "Snape was here?" she worriedly enquired, one hand twisting itself in the dark blue sheets. The phantom nodded, her expression turning somewhat bitter.

"Unenthusiastically, though it did take him awhile to return once he had gone. You would have to ask Madam Pomfrey what took him so long, as I was watching over his class at the time."

"It figures," Rosaline groused. "He was probably trying to stay as long as possible in the hopes that his presence would make me feel worse. Either that or he had to go and wash himself after being near me."

"Rosaline!" the Grey Lady chided her, holding in a chuckle, but Rosaline wasn't paying attention. The topic of the Potions master had given her blank, wistful stare that told the ghost she was a million miles away. "Are the curtains of great interest to you?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes. They're quite...blue."

A wry smirk tinged the corners of the phantom's mouth. "All right, out with it," she ordered, folding her hands in her lap. "What's on your mind?"

The young woman sighed at length and slid down the pillows so that she was stretched out on her back and fidgeted with her hands like a distracted child, linking her thumbs and forefingers in an Itsy Bitsy Spider dance. "That dream," she finally admitted. "I don't know why I keep thinking about it. The memory of it is very vague and fuzzy. And---ugh!---Lockhart? I can't _believe_ the headmaster is allowing him to taint my beautiful history! Oh," she groaned, grabbing a random pillow and pretending to smother herself with it so that her voice was muffled, "my students are going to hate me. Lockhart. Ye gods." 

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about them if I were you," the Grey Lady consoled her. "They'll most likely be so happy when you return that they'll forget to be cross with you."

Rosaline threw the pillow aside and looked hopefully up at the spectre. "You really think so?"

"I do. Of course, if by some mind-boggling chance I'm incorrect, you can always make it up to them. I hear that butterbeer doubles as a sedative these days. Give one to an impatient child and their whining clears up quick as a Snidget."

"That's all well and good, but I highly doubt I have the funds to buy a thousand-odd students each a butterbeer, no matter how desperate and delusional I may be."

"Well...you're a Ravenclaw; I'm sure you'll think of something."

"You're very optimistic for a ghost, you know."

"Most people consider death to be the lowest one can go. If one is already dead, what way is there to go but up?"

"Point taken," Rosaline murmured as she closed her eyes to sift through her thoughts. Secretly, she was glad for the Grey Lady's persistence in her staying in bed to recuperate. Her earlier burst of adrenaline upon her realisation that she had missed more than a day's lessons had worn off, and she was surprised to find that, despite her many hours' rest, she was still quite tired and drained, and for some strange reason, her knuckles ached, as though she had bruised them.

"Lady Jane?"

"Yes?"

"What do you know of dreams?"

She heard the ghost sigh and, after a few thoughtful moments, speak. "I know I haven't dreamt in over four and a half centuries."

Rosaline rolled onto her side to face the phantom, but did not open her eyes. "Do you believe they can...transcend, so to speak, into the waking world?"

"I can't think of a reason why they couldn't. Dreams, consciousness, life, death...it all mingles together, stronger at certain points in time, and weaker in others. Why?"

"No reason," Rosaline shrugged, flexing one hand into a fist. "I didn't feel like myself."

"What?"

"In my dream," she said quietly. "I didn't feel like myself. But I didn't feel like I was on the outside looking in, either. It was like I was someone else, but I don't know who. Why would I dream I was someone I've never met?"

There was another wispy sigh, and Rosaline could picture the ghost's brooding, contemplative stare. "I don't know. The subconscious mind oft times works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it wasn't someone you've met, but someone you've heard of: A random identity your mind just happened to come across at the time."

"I suppose so...it just felt so familiar...why can't I shake this feeling of déjà vu? And what on Earth could Severus Snape have to do with it? It's driving me up the wall. I can't afford to go mad again, not now. Not when things are so...for lack of a better word, ideal. I have a job I enjoy, wonderful company---for the most part, at least---my privacy when I want it...of all the times, why _now_? What is so important about now that this is happening?"

She opened her eyes, and found the Grey Lady gazing at her with a small, somewhat melancholy smile. 

"If I knew the answer to that," said the spectre, "I would never have seized the throne."

~*~*~*~*~*~

  
_A/N:_ Well, that's chapter two. Chapter three should be out in a few days, if I don't get too distracted by writing for---gasp!---school assignments. More of Severus, Halloween, and the pace of the story picks up a bit.

And, wow, reviews. Wonderful ones, too (I'm on favourites lists! Woo and, of course, hoo!). I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as you did the first one, and that you found Snape to be in-character; he's a difficult one to write. 

_Atheis and Aeris Gainsborough: _Thank you I do. :)  
_kaptainsnot: _Thank you much. I'm glad you find Rosaline to be a relatable character---she actually has a lot of myself in her (history nut, a perpetually nervous stomach, etc.). I'm flattered by your compliments, and I do hope this story continues to maintain your interest.  
_Faith Accompli: _I'm in the middle of reading your Tom/Ginny story "Walking Higher;" it's fantastic thus far. Must leave you a nice long review for it when I've finished. Of course, since I'm liking your story so much, I'm thrilled you're liking mine. I'm glad you don't think Rosaline an annoying-as-fuck New Teacher (I was worried she might come off as grate-on-one's-nerves whiny). As for her past, there's nothing really tragic about it, no---her brain's simply wired a bit off, so that she makes molehills into mountains and vice-versa. The tragedy's all in her head.  
_Veruka: _I'm glad Faith shoved you, too. ;) I agree---Flitwick doesn't get enough play in fics. I'm pro-Flitwick. A tiny, good-natured duelling champion-cum-Charms professor is bound to have led an interesting life.  
_Fidelis Haven: _Oh my. I'm on the favourites list of Fidelis Haven. Holy crap. Again with the being thrilled, both that you like and that you don't want to grind my new character into meatloaf (because that would be...bad). Binns really _does_ need to kick it, in a never-coming-back sort of way. If he can _die_ and not notice, I'm sure he'd be just as oblivious to an exorcism (possibly even one he requests himself).  
_Tessie: _Writing quickly as I can without sacrificing grammar, spelling and the like. Hope you found this part just as interesting.  
_Dahlia: _Ta. :) Happy to know Snape bastardry is coming through---he just wouldn't be Snape if he wasn't a sarcastic, cynical git. Huge part of his appeal, that.

Salveoserum I made up (obviously), from the Latin _salveo_, meaning "to be in good health." The serum part's rather obvious. 


	3. In Secrets

**Chapter 3 - In Secrets**

  
After three days of rest, Rosaline was back to feeling more like herself on Monday, with the exception of a lingering cough that seemed to always make itself known whenever she went near the putrid bouquet Gilderoy Lockhart had sent, wishing her to "_Get well soon! Though I am all too happy to be covering your classes for you, I fear your students may be severely disappointed when they no longer have me for classes twice a day! Best not to let them get too attached to me! ---Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's _Most-Charming-Smile Award._" She'd burned the note.

On the up side, both Professors Flitwick, Vector and Dumbledore had all paid a visit to her rooms over the weekend to see how she was convalescing and, after a visit from Poppy Pomfrey on Sunday evening, she had been deemed well enough to return to work, something for which she was both thankful and fearful.

The latter emotion was the most prevalent now, as she stood in front of her first class, a group of fifth-year Ravenclaws who were normally one of her favourite groups to teach. At least they were all looking more or less relieved that she was back.

"Feeling better, Professor?" Penelope Clearwater, a prefect with a lot of curly dark hair, enquired as she passed by Rosaline's desk on her way to her seat.

"Oh, yes, much, thank you," the History of Magic professor replied, forcing a nervous smile as the bell rang and the class officially began. Taking a deep breath (and consequently exhaling it in a cough), Rosaline stood and cleared her throat, regarding her students with some hesitation.

"Good morning," she began, and was met with several responses of the same that led her smile to widen somewhat. "Um...would anyone care to tell me where you left off with Professor Lockhart?"

Ravenclaw House's Quidditch Keeper and captain, Roger Davies, stood and adopted one of the widest, most insincere smiles Rosaline had ever seen. "And in the beginning," he said, lowering his voice to a theatrical boom, "...there was Gilderoy! That's right, me! And I said, 'Let there be light.' And there was, shining out from beneath my azure and chartreuse plaid silken underpants---"

The class snickered collectively, and Davies took a bow, and then his seat. Rosaline, on the other hand, looked absolutely horrified.

"Oh, gods, I am _so_ sorry," she apologised. _Damn that man! What on Earth was the headmaster thinking to allow _him_ to take over in my absence? _"Can you ever forgive me?"

"It's no big deal," said Davies, now grinning much more earnestly. "While you were on your death bed, most of us reverted to our previous habit of sleeping through this class."

"Oh. Well, that's a relief," Rosaline sighed, visibly relaxing somewhat with the knowledge that not too much damage had been done to her precious subject. "I'll still make it up to you, though. So...shall we begin where we left off on Wednesday? Open your books to page five-hundred-seventy-two. Miss Clearwater, if you would read the first paragraph aloud?"

As the girl read (it was a rather long paragraph), Rosaline's mind drifted, still consumed in confusion over the peculiar dream she'd had whilst in the midst of fever. The fact that the next dream she'd had was one concerning a flock of parrots taking control of the Knight Bus did nothing to alleviate her bewilderment. When Pomfrey had arrived at her rooms for a follow-up examination, Rosaline had been most embarrassed to learn of her volatile outburst in Snape's presence, and that the faint purplish bruise that now discoloured his left cheek had been the result of that. Her face had flushed earlier that morning at breakfast when she'd caught his eye, and she felt quite deserving of the fierce glare he'd seen fit to bestow upon her. She would have apologised to him, if she thought for one moment that he would accept it, or if she hadn't been more unnerved by the nature of the incident than whether or not he blamed her for it---which, she was certain, he did. It was just another tick for him to add to the "mad" box. 

_A second possession._

The thought squirmed its way into her mind before she could push it away, but that didn't stop her from countering it.

_No. A dream inspired by the first one---the _only_ one. And even that much is debatable._

Rosaline wasn't sure which theory worried her more---that she was indeed being sporadically controlled by some nameless spirit, or that it was all her, all in her head.

_You _are_ going mad again._

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. _No. I'm not. That is unacceptable._

You know what happens when you refuse to accept things, Rosaline.

"Professor?"

Her mouth twitched into a small, acrimonious grimace. _As though I could forget._

"Professor? Are you all right?"

The questioning voice pulled Rosaline from her ruminations, and she blinked at the slightly alarmed-looking prefect. "What?"

"Um...are you all right?" Clearwater repeated, her pretty face pinkening. "You looked a little..."

"Out there," Davies finished for her.

"Oh," said Rosaline, finally coming to her senses. "Yes. I'm sorry. I just got a little distracted..." _In class. Grand way to reinforce a professional front, Ros. Quite rude of you, too._

"With what?" asked Victor MacFarlan, a wiry Quidditch Chaser with a face composed almost entirely of freckles half hidden by a shock of blond hair that perpetually flopped over his forehead.

"Concern yourself with your own business, Mr. MacFarlan," the History of Magic professor murmured brusquely. The students looked a bit taken aback by her sudden irritability, and she cursed herself for being so short with them---it wasn't their fault she was cracking up, and they didn't deserve her taking her frustration out on them. With a brief sigh, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and stood to begin the day's lecture, hoping that she could immerse herself in the Giant War of 1813---which was both between giants and of gigantic proportions---enough to block out the rather depressing thoughts flowing through her mind.

_Not only depressive: Dangerous. I cannot afford to start thinking like this again, not when I've worked so hard to..._

To what? Become a neurotic recluse?

"...the Giant War of 1813 was the culmination of centuries upon centuries of tense and distrustful relations between two of the most aggressive giant tribes whose disagreements continuously fed their instinctive thirst for war..."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The remaining two weeks until Halloween passed slowly for Severus. Following Rosaline's recovery and subsequent reappearance at mealtimes, he had taken to eating either as quickly as possible, or within his office, deeming the atmosphere of the Great Hall (so often clogged with the inane chitchat of children, and now with _her_ presence) very much negotiable in his efforts to keep as far away from the woman as possible. When the headmaster had enquired of his absences, he had claimed to be working on a much more difficult final exam, as too many students had passed the one for his class the previous year.

The bruise on his cheek had healed within a week, but he still found himself occasionally running a hand over the place where it had been, as if he missed the dull ache of it.

_Ridiculous thought,_ he inwardly groused on All Hallow's Eve as he took a long drink of wine from his goblet, driven to the Great Hall not so much for the holiday feast as from the desire to escape the raucous noise polluting the dungeons (and therefore his office) from Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party. Even in death, Gryffindors still managed to find ways to exasperate him like no other group could---he supposed it was a silent requirement of being admitted into that particular House, wedged right between "bravery" and "chivalry." He would not have been surprised were the Sorting Hat to add such a lyric in its song for the next year's start-of-term feast.

The Rosebridge woman was a scant four seats away from him, between Flitwick and Vector on Dumbledore's other side. Not far away enough. He kept his eyes on the students, his gaze roaming over all four tables at length beginning with his Slytherins and ending with the Gryffindors, who, he noted, were missing three of their number. A slight smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth at the prospect of seeking out the absent second-years and demanding their reason for not attending the feast, then punishing them regardless of their excuse. There were many reasons why he played favourites so obviously as he did, but to say that because he enjoyed it fell nowhere on that list would be lying. 

"Professor Snape." McGonagall's voice, tinged with annoyance and something akin to desperation, cut through the waning end of one of Lockhart's fairy tales which Severus had quickly coached himself to tune out. If she was seeking himself out for conversation, Snape knew she must have been nearing the end of her tether with the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. "Professor Sinistra was telling me earlier today of a recently unearthed study by Galileo on the effects of the moon's phases on magic. I would be interested in hearing your thoughts on the subject and its relation to Potions."

_Dark gods. And to imagine I thought _I_ was beginning to grasp at straws..._ "Professor McGonagall," he drawled, intoning both boredom and belittlement in his voice, "you are just as aware as I that the strength of a potion depends on the passion one puts into it as much as any of its ingredients. If a full moon increases one's magical ability, then it is...possible...that a potion brewed on that particular night would be slightly more potent than usual. It is all, of course, dependant on the wizard brewing the potion. No amount of moonlight can turn soup into serum. I daresay you can remember such rudimentary knowledge from your school days." _Long ago as they may have been._

The Transfiguration professor's mouth thinned a bit, and Snape contained the urge to sneer. Under normal circumstances, he and McGonagall got on reasonably well, in a formal, you-keep-to-your-House-and-I'll-keep-to-mine sort of way jilted by the occasional spat concerning their respective students, but his sarcastic inclinations had amplified as of late, owing to a number of factors. The blond wizard in midnight blue robes to his left had something to do with that. The mousy witch seated four chairs down from him had a great deal more, though he couldn't for the life of him make sense of why a shy, stammering woman who seemed to be doing her best to keep as far from him as she was capable of would take precedence over someone so ridiculous and condescending as Lockhart. The man actually had the _gall_ to ask him to be his assistant in a duelling demonstration---_he_, who had memorised more curses by the age of eleven than the majority of the seventh-years currently in attendance at Hogwarts, an _assistant_.

Snape had, of course, agreed. A chance such as this to vent his frustrations with minimal consequences happened once in a blue moon. If Lockhart wished to make an even bigger fool of himself than he already did---quite a feat in and of itself---Snape was not going to miss out on the opportunity to take part in it. It promised to be the most fun he had had in a long while.

He checked his watch; only a handful of minutes until the feast was over. With any luck, Sir Nicholas would take the hint when the Slytherin students retreated into their dungeon dormitories and begin exorcising his little festivity, leaving the Potions master to rest in peace, or at least sit in peace. During the last few days, the night hours had had him feeling even more restless than usual, almost...caged, with a strange, chilling sensation prickling along his skin as though he were treading on thin ice, too fearful of falling through both to stay, and to move. Sooner or later something would splinter and break, but whether it would be the ice or himself, he did not know.

He drummed his fingers slowly on the table, absently grinding his teeth together, lost in thought. This feeling, whatever it was, greatly unsettled him. It was like being watched, studied---_hunted_---by a predator cloaked in darkness, the same darkness in which he himself so often sought solace from the day. Something foreign and invading, and yet so very familiar...almost a reflection, which was partially why he found it so damned unnerving. It would have been better if he had felt it of an enigmatic origin---being haunted by those he had...wronged...in the past was something he was nearly accustomed to by now---but as it was, it seemed almost a part of himself, some black corner that had remained dormant, up until now.

_Of the two of us,_ he mused to himself, risking a second-long glance at the History of Magic professor, who was poking absently at the as yet untouched food on her plate, _which is the mad one?_

He hadn't a chance to answer himself before Dumbledore stood and declared it was time for the feast to come to an end. Grateful for the interruption of his thoughts, Severus rose and followed behind the students with the other professors, lingering toward the back of the steady trickle of bodies out of the massive doors.

That something was wrong registered immediately in his mind as the flow of people suddenly hesitated, then came to a complete halt. Gasps and whispers floated through the crowd, young Mr. Malfoy's voice rising with taunting enthusiasm above them all.

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

He, along with Dumbledore, McGonagall and (much to Snape's irritation) Lockhart began to push through the crowd of stunned students to the front, where Filch had just shouldered his way through.

"What's going on here? What's going on?" the caretaker demanded, then fell back at the sight that awaited him, clutching his face in horror. "My cat!" he shrieked. "My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?"

The Potions master fought to contain a nasty smile at the thought of some great tragedy befalling Filch's wretched feline cohort. Though on neutral terms with the caretaker himself, Snape loathed the beast that perpetually followed at the Squib's heels, if only because he was less than fond of all cats to begin with. Nothing but a mass of matted fur and fluff that licked their paws after walking about in their own filth; ghastly creatures, the lot of them.

"_You_!" Filch carried on, and Snape's urge to smile multiplied when he saw the recipients of the caretaker's rage---with their punishment, his night would certainly be looking up---waning only when he took in the whole of the scene of the crime. Beneath foot-high words, shimmering in the flickering luminescence of the flaming torchlight, the ill-fated Mrs. Norris hung by her tail, stiff as a corpse, her red eyes wide and glassy. An icy shiver slithered along his spine, as though someone had trod on his grave, as he read the message above the animal: 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

His mind buzzed with centuries' worth of legends and rumours flitting through his brain, brought forth by his formidable memory, and he could not force down a strange thrill that welled up in his throat, realising in the back of his mind that those words should not have pleased him as they did. He felt almost...proud, though not of himself. It was the sort of pride he often took in his students when they did well brewing a particularly complicated potion, or received high marks on a final exam.

"_You_! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll---"

"_Argus_!" Dumbledore finally broke through the swarm of students, and Filch's wrath. "Come with me, Argus. You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."

Lockhart eagerly stepped forward, and Snape's desire to smile quickly became a desire to see the Dark Arts professor join the frozen cat in being hung by the arse.

"My office is nearest, Headmaster---just upstairs---please feel free---" the blond man offered with far too much enthusiasm than was appropriate. Dumbledore, ever patient, thanked him kindly, extracted Mrs. Norris from the wall, and Snape followed both men and McGonagall up to the first floor of the castle, casting a surreptitious glance Rosaline's way, gauging the witch's reaction. Her eyes were large and unblinking, and her mouth bore no trace of smile, nor a frown, as if the words written on the wall entranced her. Severus narrowed his eyes briefly in suspicion, but continued on his way.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Terrible thing, simply terrible," Flitwick shook his head as he and Rosaline followed the Ravenclaw students up to their tower dormitories.

"Who d'you think is responsible, Professor?" asked Morag MacDougal, a nosy second-year Scot who always had a black ink spot on her temple from the quill perpetually tucked behind her ear, and who proclaimed herself to be the next Rita Skeeter at least twice a week. Now, the quill was in one hand and her journal in the other, both poised to take down and receive whatever interesting facts were bound to spill from her head of house's mouth.

"I'm afraid I cannot say, Miss MacDougal."

"_Can't_ say, or _won't_ say? Has Professor Dumbledore sworn you t'secrecy? Does he know who it is? Does he have his suspicions?"

Flitwick sighed and patted the girl on the knee, ever the bearer of paternal comfort, though his eyes were grim. "Don't trouble yourself with it, dear; I'm sure it will all be rectified soon enough."

Sensing that she wasn't going to get anything worth exploiting out of the Charms professor, but never one to give up without a fight, MacDougal turned her interrogation on the taller teacher.

"What about you, Professor Rosebridge? Who d'_you_ think's done it?"

But Rosaline wasn't paying attention to the overeager girl, and before her silence could be commented on, Morag's somewhat less inquisitive friends Padma Patil and Terry Boot each took one of the Scot's arms and yanked her past the password-taking suit of armour and through the open portal that led to the Ravenclaw common room.

"Now, straight to bed with the lot of you," Flitwick called after them just before the portal door slid shut and the suit of armour swung 'round to stand in front of it, stoic as a Buckingham Palace guard.

"You know they'll be up until three in the morning if you tell them that," Rosaline murmured absently, and Flitwick smiled and gave a small shrug as they reached the door to his private chambers not a stone's throw away from the Ravenclaw dormitories.

"Children will be children. You, on the other hand, look as though you could use some rest. Try not to stay up too late dwelling on things, hm?"

Rosaline nodded and made her way down the corridor as Flitwick disappeared within his rooms. When she got to her own, she unlocked the door and stepped inside, but lingered in the threshold. _Now is not the time for sleep, _a voice whispered softly in the back of her mind. She swayed slightly on the balls of her feet, hesitant to move in either direction for a moment until the voice returned, _You know where you want to go._

Without further thought, she started back toward the ground floor of the castle, the door to her rooms left open behind her.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Snape stormed out of Lockhart's office ("shrine to himself" was actually a better term for it) and down the nearest staircase, silently fuming at both the headmaster's lenience in punishing the three little Gryffindor wretches that always seemed to be hard at work to make his life more unpleasant than it already was, and the blond man's mind-boggling audacity.

_Cursed, idiotic, _moronic_ man..."I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep!" Oh, I would thoroughly enjoy watching him try...he could test it on himself in a show of his oh so remarkable bravery. His funeral would certainly be cause for celebration, though he would probably return as a ghost just to spite me and mistake the festivities for an Irish wake..._

His jaw clenched as he stepped onto the ground floor and turned sharply right, heading for the dungeons. He had nearly reached the antechamber that would lead him there when something made him pause mid-stride; a low, scarcely audible hum echoed through the Entrance Hall, like a G chord on a cello, melodic and morose. A shuddering breath of cold swirled around him, enveloping him in a heavy sigh of icy air. That's when he heard it---a voice, whisper-soft and without any origin that he could discern, a quiet, ethereal rasp: "Sev-er-us..." Sing-song, childlike, beckoning him toward the direction from whence he came.

Slowly, tentatively he turned---nothing but shadow and moonlight streaming in through the great cathedral windows of the castle met his gaze. And yet...and yet there was something, some_one_...

His lips parted to ask who was there, to reprimand, but his voice had left him. He couldn't remember willing his feet to move, but he was walking nevertheless, sweeping over to the threatening letters shimmering in the torchlight and then stopping. Waiting.

"You should not let him get to you like you do," another voice, different from the one that had called him to this place, spoke gently from behind him, and he whirled around, half expecting the owner to vanish before he had the chance to see...

...her.

She stood before him, hands clasped behind her back, and vaguely he remembered that he hated when she stood like that, as though she had a knife in her hands and was waiting for him to embrace her so that she could stab him in the back.

"He is entirely infuriating." His words (his?) were spat harshly into the air, as if they had been stuck in his throat and choking him. "I loathe him from the very bowels of my soul."

"Oh, what pretty words," she retorted, her sarcasm diluted by her amusement, as she sauntered toward him, closing the space between them to a mere few inches and running her fingertips lightly over the front of his robes. His eyes darkened, narrowed slightly, and he caught her wrist and pulled her---roughly---closer to him, so that she was pressed flush against him. She gasped in surprise, but did not struggle.

"I prefer the absence of words," he hissed, voice silky and coiling in the air like a serpent, "and the actions that quiet them."

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he impeded the act, grazing her lips with his. One of her hands came up to wind around his neck and entangle in his hair as she deepened the kiss, the other sliding around to splay possessively between his shoulder blades. A hushed growl rumbled from his throat as his own hands slipped down over her shoulders, over her sides, and came to rest at the small of her back.

He remembered that he adored when she stood like this.

Both the silence and the ambience were shattered suddenly with the resonant chiming of a nearby clock striking midnight. The numbness of the surrounding cold turned to sharpness, the adoration fled his mind instantaneously, and Snape's eyes flew open.

For one stunned moment, they remained stationary, still holding each other, mouths still entwined. But that, too, was fleeting, and they jerked away from each other almost violently, both staggering back a few steps, shocked expressions that asked the same questions mirrored in each other's faces, one question in particular booming above them all until the clock finished letting the time be known: What the _hell_ had just happened?

Snape was the first to recover.

"Explain yourself at once!" he snarled, the words directed at himself as well as at her. Rosaline jumped, startled as his voice cut through the thick fog of confusion clouding her mind.

"I..." she began, trying to make sense of her thoughts. "...wait, no," she shook her head, "_you_. You kissed me. Why did you---?"

"Woman, I did not! You---" he paused, becoming aware of the loud echo of his voice in the enormous hall and lowering it to an abrasive growl. "You called me here. Whatever this was, it was your doing. What curse was this?" he demanded. "The Imperius?"

"It might have been," Rosaline all but yelled, indignation and bewilderment causing her to forget her usual shyness, "but I certainly wasn't the one using it!"

The Potions master scowled dangerously, his upper lip curled back in an incensed snarl. "I _do_ hope you are not insinuating that _I_---"

"Who else could it have been? Twice already I've not been myself in your presence! What the hell do you think you're playing at, bringing me all the way down here and...and...taking liberties as you did! Whatever sick game you've constructed in your perverted mind, I refuse to be included in it!"

"You honestly believe I have nothing better to do with my time than to play silly mind-games with an insipid and physically unappealing wench such as yourself? I can assure you, _Professor_, that you are sorely mistaken. And besides, from where I was standing, I took no liberties that did not wish to be taken in the first place!"

Rosaline's palm met his face with a loud crack, and Severus reacted on instinct, violently shoving her back and pinning her against the wall, his fingertips digging with a bruising force into her upper arms. Her head snapped back and hit the stone with a hard thud, and for a few seconds blackness flooded her vision as a blunt pain flooded behind her eyes. She felt him hesitate, but when her vision cleared she found his face very close to hers, and what sliver of concern that might have been present in his obsidian gaze was drowned by glittering rage that frightened the hell out of her.

"Professor Rosebridge," he whispered, his eyes flashing cruelly, "I advise you never to do that again, and to keep your distance. I will not tolerate another episode of this farce of a fantasy. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from quavering, wanting him to leave before the tears pushing against her eyes spilled down her cheeks, and nodded. Without another word, Snape released her and stalked quickly away for his original destination of the dungeons. Rosaline held her breath until she heard the door to the antechamber slam close, then finally exhaled, covering her mouth with a trembling hand to muffle a choked sob. The tears she had been holding in escaped, and for a long while she couldn't bring herself to move, save for the cries that wracked her thin form and made her chest ache with something far deeper than fright or confusion.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He nearly collapsed against the antechamber door the second it had shut, his entire body shaking in fury and the remnants of the passion that had gripped them just before the clock struck twelve. His breathing was harsh and ragged as he tried to will himself to calm, and was met with minimal success.

It had not been the Imperius Curse, which controlled one's body but not one's mind, not really; this had gone far beyond mind control. His emotions had been violated, forced into feeling something which he had never felt before, something which did not exist within him and never would---he had thought.

Love. For those few vile moments, he had loved her. The heat of her pressed against him, the sweet taste of her mouth, and the fleeting knowledge that he was defenceless against her and that that was all right...

He felt as though he might vomit. The chaos, the sudden abandon of those feelings for a woman he barely knew and was definitely _not_ romantically interested in more than unnerved him---they frightened him. Whatever had transpired in that great room, it was deadly, dangerous, and he wanted no part of it. It ended, here and now.

He could hear her quiet sobs through the door, a strange mixture of anxiety and guilt welling inside of him at the anguished sounds. He had meant to hurt her, and had expected to enjoy it. Why the _fuck_ didn't he enjoy it?

Suppressing a shiver from the cold that was taking its time to fade from the air surrounding him, he pushed off from the door and headed with determined but leaden steps toward the dungeon stairwell. He needed a scalding shower, a boiling bath, a bonfire---anything to burn the filth of love from his skin, and steam the memory of it from his mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_A/N:_ In case anyone's curious and whatnot, m'sister was digging up some old mp3s and found a theme song for this little story (and then I found myself wondering why it wasn't obvious to me in the first place). Anyway, Sarah McLachlan's "Possession." I'm sure you've all heard it (who hasn't?). Just thought I'd share.

Davies' little Lockhart speech is credited to Faith Accompli, who was nice enough to let me use it, because it amused the hell outta me.

The next chapter should, in theory, be out faster than this one was. Schoolwork got the best of my writing time. Bleh.

As always, many thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. I appreciate it much.

_Tessie:_ Ta much. Hope you found this part just as interesting as the last.  
_Faith Accompli: _You've already heard my reply to your review, so be happy with another thanks. ;)  
_Atheis and Aeris Gainsborough: _Yes, more I wrote. More I wrote again. Hope you enjoyed.  
_Veruka: _::nods:: Poor History of Magic. I felt kind of...dirty...after making Lockhart the sub. So, does Snape continue to live up to his bastardry in this part? ::grins::  
_Fidelis Haven: _No, you're not deluding yourself---it's them. And I agree---poor Jane Grey. Got thrown into a bunch of shite against her will and for what? An axe to the throat. But I reckon she's had time to, ah, heal, since then. Figuratively speaking. And I'm doing my best to make Snape nasty. I think the whole forced-to-love thing would definitely _not_ change him for the better, so he gets to be all conflicted.  
_Amanda: _Thanks. :) It's not really the first (past-life-loves thing); more of the second (dead-love-lost thing). They're sort of stuck in a loop and can't get out of it---at least, not by themselves.

And. Um. Yeah. ::runs:: 


	4. In Denial

**Chapter 4 - In Denial**

  
"Trade disagreements between European and Asian sorcerers brought about the International Warlock Convention of 1289, in which representatives from each country converged to discuss trade negotiations, and to promote good will between wizarding governments. Needless to say, it all failed miserably when in September, a group of Sardinian sorcerers protested against the delegates from Romania and Japan, the former of which were composed nearly entirely of wizards-cum-vampires, and the latter of which decided it would be in their best interests to send a particularly shrewd and vicious group of goblins, one of whom felt it necessary to assault the Sardinian warlock Efisio's kneecaps when he refused to concede to an international tariff on Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and are any of you paying _any_ attention to me at all?"

Rosaline looked upon her class with weary exasperation. The second-year Gryffindors, normally a fairly enthusiastic group, were wilting in their seats like a bunch of old flowers. At her question, a few of them glanced up apologetically, but other than a bit of shifting to slightly better posture in an attempt to appear interested, their dazed dispositions held fast. It had been the same for quite a few days now, and the History of Magic professor couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty and discouraged at their continued apathy.

"Look," she sighed, "I know I've been doing my best Binns impression as of late, and I'm sorry, but would you please humour me and at least act enthralled by what I'm saying?"

"It's not that, Professor," said Hermione Granger, the only one in the class who hadn't appeared on the verge of sleep all period long.

"Well then what is it? I know these last few days have been...tense," _To say the least..._ "for everyone, but life must go on. Final exams are not going to be cancelled because of one act of vandalism." 

"Yes ma'am," the bushy-haired girl nodded, "but...perhaps if we knew a bit more about it all, we wouldn't be so nervous about it. People, by nature, fear what they don't understand---perhaps if we better understood it..." she trailed off, looking imploringly at her teacher.

_Clever girl,_ Rosaline mused grimly to herself. _Too clever for comfort. I sincerely hope she's not getting at what I think she's getting at..._ "And just what is it you wish to better understand, Miss Granger?"

"The Chamber of Secrets," the girl said simply, and Rosaline looked away, as if the words pained her. The sudden air of attentiveness from the other students that drew into the room like a sharp intake of breath did nothing to alleviate her unease. Inwardly, she cursed Snape for the thousandth time and leaned back against her desk, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Well, at least they were genuinely interested now, even if she immediately wished they had kept to their daydreams...

"It's nothing more than a ridiculous legend, really," she reluctantly began.

"Please, Professor," Granger urged, looking hopeful, and Rosaline sighed again, knowing her performance in class had recently been rather lacklustre, and she _did_ still owe them all for Lockhart...

The thought of toothy blond wizard and the note he'd sent with his foul bouquet sealed the deal.

"I suppose I should start at the beginning. Er...let's see..." she rifled through her thoughts, and was surprised to find that she didn't have to dig deep in order to recall the information she was searching for. "Well, as you all know, Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago by the four greatest witches and wizards of that time---Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Godric Gryffindor. Working together, they built this castle in order to teach children who showed signs of magical ability how to hone and utilise their powers, and for a few years, they did just that." She lowered her eyes, gazing off to the left as she always did when she became entangled in memories, her recitation forming on her lips as if she were reading from an invisible book.

"But the concord between them did not last for very long. A rift formed between Slytherin and the oth---" she paused, blinking once as though she were a record and had hit a skip in the music, "---between Slytherin, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. The former wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families, whilst the latter two felt that students of Muggle parentage had every right to be taught how to use their abilities as well."

"What about Ravenclaw?" asked Dean Thomas, knitting his brow in curiosity.

"She...she refused to take a stand either way, at first. She didn't want to be forced into taking sides."

Granger raised her hand. "But---why not? She couldn't have been _that_ indifferent in regards to who she taught, if she built her life around it."

"She wasn't indifferent," Rosaline shook her head, frowning. This had never been in any textbook---how did she know all of this? "She sided with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but she couldn't bring herself to...to tell Salazar that..."

"They were _involved_?" squealed Lavender Brown, looking a little disgusted and very fascinated by the prospect.

"Yes...but...her silence couldn't hide her opinions forever. Sal---Slytherin---he was not a stupid man, nor was he blinded by love. Eventually, he discerned Rowena's silence on the matter to mean that she stood against him. She had betrayed him, and he lashed out, getting into an enormous quarrel with Gryffindor and leaving the school."

"But not b'fore he built the Chamber," Seamus Finnigan put in knowledgably. "The slippery git."

Rosaline arched an eyebrow. "Indeed. According to legend, he sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that no one would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber and unleash the horror within, to purge the school of all who he had deemed unworthy to study magic."

"That's so _mean_," Brown exclaimed, sulking. "He just _left_ her? What a pillock!"

Her professor shrugged, a strange sadness settling on her features. "She broke his heart."

"That makes no difference," the blonde girl shook her head. "You _don't_ walk away from love."

A few of her classmates sniggered at her romantic proclamation.

"Slytherins don't have hearts, Lav. They can't love," sneered Ron Weasley.

"_All_ humans have hearts, Ron," Granger scolded him, rolling her eyes in a superior fashion.

"Fine then---Slytherins have no souls. Happy? They still can't love."

The girl scoffed, and returned her attention to the front of the room. "Professor---what exactly do you mean by the 'horror within' the Chamber?"

"It's believed to be some sort of monster only the Heir of Slytherin can control," Rosaline supplied, waving her hand as if to clear the conversation from air at the students' nervous looks. "But the Chamber is only a legend, a fairy tale. Nothing more than a bit of propaganda created to reinforce people's negative opinions of Slytherin House, and I must say thus far it's done its job." She looked pointedly at Weasley, who blushed a bright crimson and sank down in his seat.

"But Professor," said Finnigan, "if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, no one else _would_ be able to find it, would they?"

"The castle has been searched by many learned witches and wizards, Mr. Finnigan---"

"But Professor," piped up Parvati Patil, "you'd probably have to use Dark Magic to open it---"

"And you'd have to be related to Slytherin---" Thomas chimed in, and Rosaline bristled as her discomfort concerning the subject multiplied by leaps and bounds.

"Enough!" she snapped, visibly shaken. Her clammy hands trembled, a sudden spark of impatience crackling in her mind. "Any further discussion of this topic and I'll have you all hanging by your thumbs in the dungeons for a month!"

The students collectively recoiled at the uncharacteristic outburst from their usually timid and benevolent teacher, and Rosaline felt as though she could be sick as she took in their wide, troubled eyes.

"...Professor?" Patil meekly ventured. "...are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Rosaline mumbled quickly, balling her hands into fists and pressing her nails into her palms as if to hold herself to reality through the pain. "I apologise, I don't know what came over me, I just...excuse me for a moment..." She left the room hurriedly, and could hear the gossiping whispers of the students from ten feet down the corridor, where she leaned against the stone wall and rubbed her temples in an attempt to compose herself as the world around her spun dizzyingly fast.

_You_ do _know what came over you,_ her mind berated her. _You_ do _know. There's no other explanation---_

No. That's preposterous. It's mad_, and I'll be damned if what happened on Halloween didn't disprove my own madness. That bastard felt it, too, no matter how much he denies it, he felt it too and madness is _not_ contagious!_

Disproved madness, proved this. How else can you explain what you know? What you remember_? _

"No," she whispered aloud. "This is not happening. There is no logical reason for this to be happening, not to me and not to him."

A second voice joined her own inner monologue, rasping and inhuman, manic. Suffocating.

_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened! Enemies of the Heir, beware! Beware, Rosaline, or he'll come for you, too!_

"Damn it, _shut up_!" she shouted, her left fist hitting the wall with a harsh scrape and a horrible cracking sound. She pulled back with a stunned gasp, cradling her injured hand as it throbbed with a dull ache. She shut her eyes tightly in a wince, opening them a few seconds later to inspect the damage she'd inflicted upon herself. Her knuckles were bloodied, but there didn't appear to be anything else wrong. Slowly, she curled her fingers experimentally, then grimaced when her ring finger bent in quite the opposite direction than it was supposed to. 

"Ugh, lovely...certainly could have handled that more intelligently..." she muttered to herself. "Idiot..."

The voices rattling around in her skull had quieted, and in the peace of silence she took a breath and collected herself, then made her way back to her classroom, keeping her injured hand behind her back so that her students would not see it. There was only twenty minutes of class time left, then school hours would be over; she would go to the hospital wing then. She was going to have one hell of a time explaining this to Pomfrey...

~*~*~*~*~*~

"_Lumos_."

The dead language of the softly spoken word mingled comfortably with the musty scent of the aged books contained in the Restricted Section. A long, pale finger ran over the worn leather bindings as dark eyes skimmed over the titles plated into them. _Pig's Blood and Phoenix Tears: Properties of Curative Potion Ingredients_, _The Plunderings of Porgrot, the Pirate of Portsmouth_, _Portents of Death and Doom_, and, finally, _Possession: Bewitchments of the Bereaved_.

The book was cold to the touch, as though it had been kept in ice. He slid it out of its place in between _The Portal Phenomenon & Possible Paradoxes_ and _Pervis the Pragmatic Pogrebin Poacher's Personal Potions_, whispered "_Nox_," and turned to retreat back to his private chambers, intent on a night of heavy reading.

He did not get far---only a step---before he collided with a body he had hoped not to see, let alone touch, anytime in the near to distant future. It started back in surprise, and would have crashed into the stacks if he hadn't reacted and caught it by its slim wrist, pulling it upright once more.

"_You_," he hissed, sneering down the History of Magic professor.

"And you," she countered, only half sarcastic, watching him with almost panicked eyes, like a little bird perched dangerously close to the waiting jaws of a snake.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his gaze boring into her, burning through the chill of night. She glanced down at the book he held; the silver letters of its title reflected in the dim moonlight that shone through the narrow windows of the library.

"The same thing you're doing, apparently." She hesitated a moment, then jerked her wrist out of his grasp. He shot her a contemptuous scowl, and pushed past her to leave. Rosaline swallowed with some difficulty, gathering her courage before starting off after him.

It had taken her hours of brooding contemplation to finally decide to tell him of what she had learned---the secret knowledge her mind had literally absorbed from the ether---and she had imagined it was going to take many days for her to work up the nerve to actually approach him about it, with the excuse of needing time to research her theory further. Coming across him now, it felt like something more than a coincidence. _It's now or never, _she told herself as she willed her body to follow him. _Though never's looking rather appealing at the moment..._

Trepidation still wrestled with anger inside of her. On Halloween night, it had not taken long for her fear to quickly turn into rage, and she often wished the transition had happened sooner so that she could have done something a bit more dignified than collapse into tears. Perhaps now, she would get her chance to let him know precisely what she thought of terminally stubborn, sour men who took pleasure in physically intimidating women. Perhaps, as long as her bravado held strong; she didn't have the best track record with bravado.

He rounded on her within ten paces, his robes billowing out impressively, like a matador's flag. Briefly, she wondered if that was a natural talent or if he had practiced it in front of a mirror.

"Are you following me?"

"I---" she cleared her throat, trying to get her voice to rise above a whisper, "I need to talk to you."

"Then I recommend you schedule an appointment with my secretary," he rejoined, eliciting another spark of impatience to flare behind Rosaline's eyes. She quickened her steps until she matched him stride for stride.

"I will speak with you _now_," she said forcefully, and he jerked away when she laid a slowing hand on his shoulder, pausing to turn on her at the top of the first staircase that would lead them down to the ground floor of the castle.

"What's this?" he asked, voice low and silky, and a strange combination of annoyed and amused. "Has the little urchin grown a spine?"

"The bottom-feeder certainly hasn't," she spat, resisting the urge to shrink back under his icy glare, finding it increasingly difficult to look at him. Snape didn't respond, and resumed his course for the dungeons. Rosaline followed without delay. "You can't just walk away from this."

"Watch me."

"You _won't_ just walk away from this. If you were going to, that book wouldn't be in your hands right now."

He dropped the text immediately. It tumbled down a few steps, creasing pages and denting the cover. Rosaline winced---Madam Pince was not going to be happy about that. She picked up the book, but did not cease in her pursuit.

"There," Snape growled. "You have what you came for. Now leave me in peace."

"You can't honestly believe it's that simple!" she said, her voice rising shrilly. "Can't you feel it? There is no peace for us. There's not _going_ to be any peace for us until they have finished what they've started."

"The only thing I feel, Professor Rosebridge, is the irritating buzzing of a persistent mosquito screeching in my ear."

They reached the bottom of the staircase, and Rosaline grabbed him roughly by both shoulders and spun him around to face her, inwardly shocked and a little proud of her audacity. Snape appeared to be the same, his sneer slightly weaker that normal, though his eyes still threw daggers in her direction. 

"Take your hands off me," he murmured, deadly quietly. She did, and forced herself to hold his stare. The blackness of his eyes seemed endless, and she repressed a shiver at their coldness.

"I know who they are." The words tumbled from her mouth before she could think. Snape's gaze narrowed, his nostrils flaring slightly.

He did not want to be here. He didn't want be anywhere _near_ her, especially at this time, so close to the witching hour during which they had been most strongly affected by the ethereal goings-on flitting about the castle. But he had to hear her out---he did not need the book she was clutching tightly in her arms to aid him in his quest to discover precisely what the phenomenon was that plagued them both so intensely. He did not need to read about it, not when he could _feel_ the answer in his bones. 

_Possession; n.: Being controlled by passion or the supernatural._

Or in their case, the passion _of_ the supernatural; spirits---not ghosts in the classical sense, but entities composed of the remnants of the souls of the dead, often times found in the belongings of the deceased, like a stain or a watermark, or a fingerprint. Vague and incorporeal, yes, and usually weak, which was why possessions were so rare in the first place. It would take a formidable soul deeply wronged to be able to affect a person beyond a bit of gooseflesh rising on his or her arms, or an uneasy shiver.

"S-Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw," she stammered, a nervous hitch in her voice. Her face flushed pink and she averted her eyes, as if her admittance of her suspicions were cause for embarrassment.

And Snape apparently agreed. He said nothing as he started down the second staircase, and this time it took Rosaline a few seconds to follow him.

"I know it sounds mad," she went on. "This whole situation is mad, and I don't know how or why they're doing this to us, but I'm telling you I _know_ I'm right---you've got to listen to me!"

His jaw clenched tightly, and he sped up his pace. Frustration gripped Rosaline like a fist of ice compressing 'round her throat, filling her lungs with glacial breath, and she stopped abruptly.

"Don't you _dare_ walk away from me!" she snarled in a voice that wasn't wholly her own, but strangely layered, as though two persons were speaking through the same body. Snape froze, a familiar wave of cold crashing against him with none of the vacillation with which it had gradually flowed around him a few nights before. His anger sharpened as a feeling of betrayal unfolded within him, filling him with disdain and disgust, and hurt. 

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face her; she was standing deathly still ten feet away, tight fists topped with white knuckles. Her hands were the only part of her that were shaking. Her face was drawn into a severe glare, but her eyes...she had never fully mastered the ability to shutter those particular windows to her emotions, and now he could quite clearly see the fear she was valiantly trying to keep from him. The knot in his stomach gave a painful wrench.

"Why not?" he asked her scathingly. "What danger is there for me now, with your knife already embedded in my back?"

She winced, and he smiled, wanting her to savour the sting of his words. The sting was all that was left now---they had already shared everything else.

"...it may be my knife, Salazar, but if it is in your back then it is there by your own hand. If you feel you have been slain, then it has been by your own arrogance, and _not_ by me. If you believe otherwise, warlock, you are a fool."

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. After a few moments that felt as though they stretched across an eternity, he tilted his head in a small, agonisingly formal nod. "It's such a relief to finally know your true feelings of me. Good-night, milady."

Rosaline felt the notoriously telling ache begin to prickle behind her eyes as he turned and began to saunter away from her once more. Then, just as swiftly as it had come over her, the eerie coldness left her body with a sound similar to that of a sudden gust of wind rushing past her ears. The oppressive weight of the foreign emotions dissipated rapidly like a ribbon being untied from around her throat and chest. Her knees buckled at the sudden release, and she crumpled to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Severus felt his own body sway, and grabbed onto a nearby banister to keep himself steady until the dizziness passed, and the world around him began to right itself. He swallowed roughly as the phantom feelings fled his mind, then glanced over at the History of Magic professor, who was still on the floor, also leaning against the banister, and looking up at him with a grim tenacity in her eyes that blended with their lingering fearfulness.

"_Now_ you will believe me," she said, her voice hoarse and strained. Snape kept his silence, and she rose on tremulous legs to stand, but made no move to go to him. "We need to see the headmaster."

Something akin to anger flashed in his eyes. "No."

"But---"

"I said no," he repeated, his tone low and dangerous.

"I don't care what you said!" Rosaline snapped. "I am not a student for you to order around!"

He was upon her in an instant, backing her further against the banister so that she was partially bent backwards over it. "_You will not tell him_," he hissed, forcing himself to ignore the disquiet that rippled through him at having his face so very close to hers.

"W-what---" she stuttered softly, trying not to lose her nerve, "---what are you going to do if I r-refuse to comply? Push me over the banister? Crack my head against the wall until I fall into a coma?"

"Tempt not a desperate man, Professor Rosebridge."

"Why are you like this? _We know_ what is happening, _we know_ who is responsible---what is it you believe you can gain by denying that?"

Snape's upper lip twisted back into a sneer, and he stepped away from her brusquely. "This wouldn't have even happened tonight had you not insisted on following me down here," he growled, avoiding the question.

"Yes, it would have! They would have drawn us here regardless---or have you so quickly forgotten Halloween? We were six floors apart, and still it happened. This is beyond our control, Snape, why can't you admit that?"

Again he said nothing, and Rosaline exhaled loudly in aggravation.

"Damn you, _answer me_!"

"I am not a student for you to order around," he mockingly hissed. "My reasons are precisely that---_mine_, and you have no right to pry into matters that are none of your concern."

"None of my concern?" she gaped disbelievingly. "I'm sorry, I must have missed the part where _this only affects you_. Must not have been wearing my Snape-centric spectacles at the time, forgive me. No, Professor, I'd say that this---and your absurd secrecy---are very much my _concern_."

He glared at her spitefully, wanting now more than ever to take her up on the suggestion of putting her into a coma, and had to consciously force his hands to remain at his sides to keep from strangling her into silence. Instead, he continued to keep his responses under lock and key, refusing to yield. For a few moments, there was quiet between them, and then it finally seemed to sink into that clever Ravenclaw brain of hers that continuing her interrogation was futile. For all the stubbornness she had shown herself capable of, Severus had well more than double that amount. He watched the anger gradually fade from her face, a pleading look briefly taking its place, soon followed by one of hopeless acceptance. 

This time, when he stalked away, she did not chase after him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Repulsive---sadistic---obstinate---prideful---egotistical---abhorrent---_infuriating bastard_!" Rosaline shouted, her words punctuated by her punching of a pillow (somewhat less satisfying but also less physically damaging than hitting a stone wall). She had fumed all the way back up to her rooms, and once she had both shut, locked, and placed a few sloppy silencing charms on her door she had wasted no time in venting her dissatisfaction with the Potions master.

The abused pillow flopped forlornly on its side, and Rosaline scowled at it derisively---this wasn't working.

She quickly scanned the bedroom, searching for something both heavy and of no remarkable value. Her eyes fell immediately upon Lockhart's wilting bouquet that she had not yet gotten around to throwing away. Perfect.

The thick glass vase shattered noisily against the wall, the shards tinkling musically to the floor. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat at the startling sound of it, then smiled in short-lived satisfaction. That had helped some, but it didn't change anything. With a loud, irritated sigh, she allowed herself to fall back onto her large, plush bed, and stared up at the dark navy blue canopy.

"Why the hell are they doing this to us?" she asked no one in particular. "Why the hell is _he_...why must he be so...so..._maddening_?"

_We're all mad here,_ a voice in her head answered her, and she groaned.

"Gods, not you again...who did I wrong in a past life to deserve this?"

_Interesting choice of phrasing._

She didn't reply, hoping it would take the hint and bugger off, but really not expecting herself to be so lucky.

She wasn't.

_Rosaline, Rosaline, Rosaline...tut tut tut...what _are_ you doing, you silly little girl?_

"You sound like Gilderoy Lockhart."

_Ouch. Someone's feeling snappish. Snappish denotes a lack of control. _Are_ you losing control again, Rosaline dear? _Are_ you...losing it?_

She swallowed, and rolled over on her side, tucking her legs tightly to her chest in her best impression of a pill bug and squeezing her eyes shut.

_Oh, now, don't be like that. You were so...liberated...a moment ago. Letting off a bit of steam. Little fissures making your walls that much weaker. You are still quite weak, you realise. One might wonder just how long it will take for those walls to crumble, how long it will take for you to...feel. What do you feel now, Rosaline? We're all simply _dying_ to know._

"Shut up," she mumbled, pressing her head into one side of her pillow and folding the other side over her exposed ear.

_Please. You know better than that, and you can't get the pillow inside your head now, can you?_

"I said _shut up_," she hissed, her eyes opening widely. She waited a few moments---nothing but blessed silence, outside her head and within. It had listened to her for once.

No---it had _obeyed_ her for once. It always listened.

Rosaline shuddered.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In his own rooms, Severus paced in front of the crackling fireplace, taking a drink from the brandy snifter loosely clasped in his right hand every five steps. Five steps, drink, turn, five steps, drink, turn. He had already refilled the glass for the third time, and though he had far from a weak tolerance for alcohol, he was bordering on intoxicated, the sensation fuelled by more than just the brandy.

Damn that woman and her presumptions! If she only knew...if she _only knew_...

But he was not about to enlighten her. He had meant what he said: His business was _his_, and she had no right, no fucking _right_...

Ah, but she had been right about one thing---this concerned both of them. This and only this, and it did not work out in his favour that "this" was so personal a matter.

Damn it, why couldn't she understand? The others understood. "Severus Snape is Severus Snape, and if you know what's good for you you'll let him be just that." ---Calamitus Kettleburn to Poppy Pomfrey, 1987. (Pomfrey had then commented that Snape wouldn't know what was good for him if it sprouted wings and flew out of his arse singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," but that was of little use to his current ruminations.)

The others understood, yes---but the others knew. She was scarcely more than a girl. Only five years younger than he, granted, but infinitely more naïve than he had been at her age, from what he had seen. A coy, nervous thing that was likely to jump in fear of her own shadow. Immature and ignorant, he was inclined to think of her more as a student than as a professor in her own right. And when the queer creature wasn't pissing herself with fright, she was insolent as a youth, surprisingly argumentative and demanding, nothing more than a spoilt brat. No wonder she had tried to off herself---perhaps she had a keen sense of self-awareness.

Five steps, drink---but he did not turn this time. After a moment's hesitation, he set down the brandy glass and sat down at the bench of a very old, narrow piano that occupied one corner of his lounge. Music was not his passion, but it was a guilty pleasure, almost a secret shame. He had been taught to play as a child at his mother's insistence; his precise, elegant fingers and impressive memory had made him a natural at it, and once he could play well enough to be paraded about at his parents' dreary dinner parties like some precious jewel (it had not taken him long to acquire the skill sufficiently), he was allowed to stop once everyone thought him something of a prodigy. Knowing that his father considered it a frivolous ability, young Severus had consented to cancelling his lessons, though every so often he would visit the grand piano in the parlour of the Snape family's formidable home and play whatever came to mind. He found the exact action of it---the way his long fingers moved gracefully and flawlessly over the keys, the attention one had to pay to timing and sound---soothing, an attraction that had carried over into his more practical and just as enjoyable art of potion-making.

This piano was not the magnificent instrument he had left behind at the Snape Estate, but he took care of it, kept it clean and meticulously tuned, and it served him well whenever he needed to relax or sort out his thoughts, both of which he was requiring now.

At the touch of the first key, he felt the tense pain occupying his temples begin to ebb away. Another key, and then another, until the notes eventually formed a random melody he had composed as a child, a combination of bits and pieces of various famous works that he had never cared to name.

Why couldn't she understand?

The question floated back into his head, and amidst the notes chiming gently in the air around him, he began to answer himself.

_She does not understand because she does not know. She does not know, because you have not told her. She will not know, because you will not tell her. She will never understand, because you will never allow her to._

Never allow her to...no, he supposed he wouldn't. He wouldn't allow a great many things.

She might have been fine with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old, but he was not. His element was one of control, his mind itself like a potion---a creation based on precise measurements and watchful timing, with careful attention paid to every detail. This...situation...was a mistake in the mixture, a cog thrown into the clockwork. A variable ingredient tipped into the cauldron, though when, how or why he did not know, for Snape never turned his back on anything, nor did he ever blink. That something so critical managed to slip through his defences was, for lack of a better term, deeply embarrassing to him, and the thought of sharing that fact---and what it did to him, how it made him...feel---with anyone, was greatly enraging.

It was beyond his control, and that was unacceptable. A gross violation of his body, his mind, his very emotions, and what gave them the right---they were a thousand years dead, what the _hell_ gave them the right to do this to him?

_Karma,_ he thought to himself, a bitter smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. And though still not completely convinced of her innocence, Snape had to wonder what gave them the right to do this to Rosaline as well. She was a Ravenclaw, yes, but there had been thousands of Ravenclaws to pass through Hogwarts---and thousands of Slytherins as well, which begged the question: Why _them_, specifically?

Despite his persistent playing, Severus' mind offered him no answer, and in time he abandoned the piano, picking up his brandy glass once more.

Five steps. Drink. Turn.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_A/N:_ Well, that was fun. I think it came together better than the last chapter (or it was just easier to write)...anyway, hope some people liked it. The plot's starting to thicken in my head, which is good.

Many thanks to all who've reviewed thus far. You've all been lovely and encouraging and stuff. 

_Minerva McTabby:_ I'm so glad you're enjoying this! (Because I love all your stuff, even though I've...yet to tellyounevermind...::cough:: I'm bad.) And yes, Jane Grey did get the chop at seventeen, but people did have to grow up faster back then (she's already been married for quite some time by then), and I figured over four and a half centuries of being a ghost might have allowed her to mature emotionally beyond that. She watched Rosaline grow up, so she's going to be a bit motherly regardless of her age of death. ;) As for the Gilderoy/Gryffindor parallel...::sniggers:: I so hadn't even thought of that. But it _does_ seem to fit, in a very insulting-to-Godric sort of way (which I like and will now consciously make an effort to include). Thanks for the enlightenment. ::grins::  
_Dahlia:_ Yesss. Good to know that that's clearly coming across. ;) Darkness and revulsion and turmoil (oh my).   
_Faith Accompli:_ You've heard me gush already, go sod y'self. ::duck:: But yes, I think wee Morag may have to play a bit part in the future...  
_Veruka:_ Soon enough? They are a little ways up shit creek, aren't they? And I hid their paddle. Oopsies. }:)  
_Atheis and Aeris Gainsborough:_ ...I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you're not Lockhart fans. And they're not really reincarnations, it's...it's explained in a future chapter.   
_Amanda:_ No, they're not conscious of what they're doing, in a sense. Again---future chapter explanation. Too much explaining to do here. Just...uh, wait and read. :)

Hope this part's been enjoyed as much as the last. Thanks for reading and reviewing and whatnot. 


	5. In Silence

**Chapter 5 - In Silence**

  
The loud, persistent ringing that echoed throughout Rosaline's rooms ended with an abrupt crash as she smacked her alarm clock off her bedside table and to the floor. The clatter it made woke her more than the ringing itself, and she entangled herself in the sheets until they held her tightly as a straightjacket, not wanting to get up.

It was six o'clock the next morning, and a Thursday, which meant she would have to attend the once-a-week staff meeting before breakfast---and which meant that she would have to face _him_ before she was properly conscious, something which usually happened around half past eight. She toyed with the idea of telling Flitwick she was sick, but that wouldn't have been wise---she took ill often enough as it was, and she couldn't afford to waste any days off simply because she was feeling particularly antisocial.

"Come on, Ros," she mumbled groggily to herself and attempted to extricate her limbs from the sheets. "There's no point in hiding, especially from him..."

It took her a good two minutes to finally free herself of the material, tired and floundering as she was from only three hours' sleep. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, rubbing her eyes with her hands. A gloomy silver sunrise streaming through the windows reflected off the blues colouring her rooms, and she felt for a moment as though she had slept within a storm cloud. With a sigh that morphed into a yawn, she replaced the brass alarm clock back onto the bedside table before standing and making her way toward her bathroom, grabbing her flimsy grey dressing gown from where it was hanging over the back of a chair on her way.

She twisted the taps of her shower on, making the water as hot as she could stand it. Undressing, she shivered in the cold air, and then again at the sharp contrasting heat of the spray as she stepped inside her bath. For a few moments, she closed her eyes and leaned against the tiled wall, resting her head on her arms as she allowed the nearly scalding water to run over her body and through her hair at its leisure. The events of the previous night weighed heavily on her psyche and shoulders, and she again pondered seeing Dumbledore about the...affliction...she and the Potions master shared despite Snape's insistence to the contrary.

Still, something held her back. Snape would probably believe that she had told the headmaster just to spite him---_Which,_ she mused to herself, _mightn't be entirely untrue._ But she didn't know how the Slytherin would react, or how detrimental to their problem that reaction might be. And even if she _did_ tell Dumbledore, what was there to be done about it? She highly doubted an exorcism would vanquish two spirits embedded into the very foundation of Hogwarts itself. They were too powerful, too anguished to be so easily quelled. What was there to do but wait out whatever closure they needed to realise?

_Leave._

The thought entered unbidden into her mind, and she opened her eyes.

"No," she answered it aloud, then reached for the shampoo bottle and began washing her hair vigorously, as if she could scrub the notion off her head.

_Leave,_ the voice repeated as the water rushed past her ears, blocking out all external sounds. _It's this place. You know it's this place. Leave the castle, and leave Slytherin and Ravenclaw to their own devices. Do not play pawn to their scorned lovers' games._

"I will not leave. My life is finally going somewhere; I'm not going to ruin it just because of some..." she trailed off, searching for words that could possibly trivialise what was happening, and finding none.

_Your life? If this continues, how much of your life do you believe you will still be able to lay claim to? How far are you prepared to let this go?_

How far...she hadn't thought of that.

_No, you hadn't, had you?_ the voice mockingly sneered. _They were lovers, Rosaline, passionate lovers who were not always kind. You don't honestly believe they stopped at mere kisses and a clothed embrace, do you?_

No, she didn't, and in the throes of possession, both she and Snape were somewhat lacking in control.

_Random moments of spite, random moments of adoration...how long do you think it will be before you and he are swept up in a moment of lovemaking over which neither of you have any restraint? Or worse---what if only one of you is possessed at the time? It's happened before. I wonder, would it still be considered rape then?_

"It will not go that far," she said resolutely. "I wouldn't allow it to, and neither would he---we'd hex each other into a coma before whichever one of us was possessed could lift so much as a hem."

_He's hurt you before, you know, and he's threatened to do it again._

"That was different. He was angry---"

_And what? He'll never be angry with you again? Come to your senses, you daft girl; he is angry every time he lays eyes on you. He blames you for what's happening._

"He is _not_ a monster. Dumbledore never would have employed him if he believed Snape was capable of something like that."

_But it wouldn't be Snape if such a thing were to happen, would it? It would be dear Slytherin himself. Enemies of the Heir, beware. It gives one cause to wonder precisely how long Salazar considered Rowena a traitor. Perhaps he believed her to be his enemy until his dying day._

It clicked in her head then, and she wondered how she hadn't seen it before. "The Chamber..." she murmured, the soapy washrag she held in her hand slipping from her fingers and landing with a light splash in the bath. "Oh, gods...it wasn't a prank. It's real. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. That's why this is happening. It's released...it's awakened _them_."

_Good girl. Have a biscuit._

Rosaline did not respond, and the voice slid quietly back into the depths of her unconscious. The Chamber of Secrets was real---not only real, but open. Was this the monster legend spoke of, these spirits? But that didn't make any sense...how were these possessions meant to weed out the Muggle-borns? These were the replayed acts of a forsaken love, not some wicked promise of blood yet to be shed. Whatever crimes to be committed under their influence were ones of passion, not of prejudice. But if the presence inhabiting Snape's body was that of Salazar himself...what if he was the Heir, not in blood, but in spirit? What if the monster entombed within the school was the phantom manifestation of Slytherin, engrained within the very walls of the castle itself and waiting for the appropriate time or person to come along to reveal itself?

But Snape had been teaching at Hogwarts for quite some time now. What was so special about this time that these spirits finally stirred?

And what of Ravenclaw? Certainly she would not have placed her essence into the Chamber as well...would she?

It was unlikely that she had even known about the Chamber's existence. If she had, with her beliefs so strongly opposed to its rumoured purpose, she would have probably sealed it in Slytherin's absence. Unless...unless his leaving had a maddening effect on her. Unless she was very aware that he had placed a part of himself within it, and keeping it accessible, putting a part of herself into it as well, had been her one last desperate effort to seek out and mend the love that had abandoned her, and whom she had abandoned in turn. What if, what if, what if...

Rosaline's head spun with theories as she quickly rinsed off, then turned off the taps and stepped out of the bath, shrugging into her dressing gown as she went. She grabbed her wand from the drawer of her bedside table and dried her hair with a short incantation, only in retrospect deciding that it would have been preferable---and less painful---if she had first combed through it and rid it of knots.

"Too late now," she muttered to herself as she forcefully pulled her brush through the snarls, wincing with every tug. When she had finished, she hurriedly twisted the strands up into her usual chignon, the few pieces near her nape that she could never seem to gather up with the rest of her hair falling down to the small of her back. Her arms ached by the time she had accomplished her task---her hair really was becoming too long for comfort. She had meant to cut it ages ago, but procrastination had once again gotten the better of her and she had never gotten around to it.

She was half dressed when the thought occurred to her that she had no reason to act so rushed, and she paused in lacing up the white corset she wore beneath her robes. Why did she feel so impatient? Even if one or more of her theories turned out to be relevant, who could she explain them to? Not Dumbledore. Snape? Would he even hear her out before shunning her? She couldn't very well stalk him throughout the day and force him to listen to her as she had done the previous night.

The voice's words floated back to her---_"He's hurt you...he blames you for what's happening."_---and her stomach tightened. She didn't want to speak with him. Truth be told, she didn't want to have to go near him ever again, though the chances of that wish being granted were about as probable as a dragon balancing itself on the point of a needle.

Her tenacity rapidly dissipating, she sank down onto her bed, trying to decide what, if any, action she should take.

_It's a secret, is it not?_ hissed the voice, which had surreptitiously slipped back into her mind amidst the din of distraction and confusion that was crowding it. _You're good at keeping secrets. Do you remember the last one you kept?_

Rosaline lowered her gaze to stare down at the ugly white scars marring the skin of her upturned wrists.

"...I don't like secrets," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

_But you had no other choice than to keep your silence, did you? They would have thought you mad. Though perhaps that's what madness is: Feeling things you were never meant to have felt---at least, not to the excess that you did. Of course, there really was no point to holding your tongue as long as you did. Those pretty pale lines spoke for you. They thought you mad and locked you up._

"But I healed," she said, closing her fingers into loose fists.

_Did you, Rosaline? Did you _really_? Do you think such a stigma can simply fade with time, like those scars of yours? They thought you mad, Rosaline, and allow _me _to let _you _in on a little secret... _the voice quieted, warping into the same rasping hiss that had taunted her not a day before, _...they still do._

"No," she shook her head and stood to finish lacing her corset, pulling the ribbons tightly through the eyelets, as if she could suffocate the foreboding thoughts away. "_No_."

_Tell yourself what you will. But remember, Rosaline...truth is not sculpted from delusion, and scars are merely patterns for future wounds to follow._

She tied on her boots hastily and grabbed her robes on her way out the door, pulling them on as she headed down to the staffroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Are you feeling okay, my dear? You're looking a bit pale."

Rosaline met Flitwick's concerned eyes and forced a weak smile. "I'm always pale---and yes, I'm fine," she lied, her stomach twisting further at the deception. She really hated to mislead her former head of house; he had never been anything but kind to her, and probably deserved her trust more than anyone, except perhaps for the Grey Lady, who was at present hovering near the fireplace, engaged in a conversation with Sir Nicholas. The house ghosts were usually in attendance of the staff meetings, as they were something of unofficial mentors to some of the students and liked to keep up on the school's affairs, but now Rosaline was loathing their company, as it only reminded her of that which she was trying to escape. Another tiny betrayal. She wondered if Ravenclaw's possession of her had anything to do with her guilt over the little white lies.

She automatically scanned the room for Snape, and found him sitting quietly in one of the chairs occupying the corner furthest away from the spectres. Perhaps their presence was disquieting to him as well. The notion might have made her feel slightly better, if she hadn't been sure that her own presence was more of a disturbance to him than the comfort normally obtained between two people with shared grievances. She looked away before he could notice her staring.

Conversations buzzed like a swarm of flies around her as the last of the faculty trickled through the door, and their wings only stopped beating when Dumbledore rose to address his professors, but even his voice sounded like a blur of sound against her ears. She half listened to the senseless words, her eyes fixated on a random flaw in the stone floor, glancing up only when a cloud of puce fabric swirled theatrically to her right. Gilderoy Lockhart enthusiastically updated the apathetic group on the state of his Duelling Club, and a few faces turned to Snape in surprise when it was announced that he had agreed to assist Lockhart in the first demonstration. The Potions master only looked murderously on the ridiculous spectacle that was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and lightly drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair, and whatever shock contorted the faces of the other teachers quickly melted away into furtive approval. When they returned their gazes to Lockhart, there was a new eagerness to their stares, and more than a couple of anticipating smirks.

"Do stop by," the golden-haired man prattled on, mistaking their smiles to mean that they were genuinely interested in what he had to say. "I'm sure you all would hate to miss the chance to see your own Lightning Lockhart in action! That's a nickname I picked up in Germany---if you've read Gadding with Ghouls you'll remember---"

"_Thank you_, Gilderoy," Dumbledore interrupted, an indulgent smile on his weathered face, "that will be all. Is there anything else anyone would like to add before we adjourn for breakfast?"

Rosaline raised her gaze to the headmaster's, then thought twice about speaking and looked covertly over at Snape. He had her fixed with a dangerous, forbidding stare, and she swallowed down what words might have lingered on her tongue.

"Rosaline?" Dumbledore enquired. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

The History of Magic professor shook her head. "No, Headmaster, there's nothing," she replied, willing her voice into a tone of nonchalance. Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at her for a second, then turned jovially back to the rest of the group.

"Then I propose we answer to the rumblings in our stomachs and commence to the Great Hall."

The faculty and phantoms slowly filed out of the room, the fly-like buzz of conversation immediately picking up where it had left off. Only Snape remained in his seat, his fingers steepled pensively in front of his face. Rosaline caught his eyes once before she, too, sauntered out of the room, and inwardly he was mildly surprised that she had not leapt at the chance to speak to him alone. Then again, she had seemed rather unfocused and morose throughout the symposium. He couldn't decide whether or not the sudden change in her demeanour pleased him. She had respected his request for silence, and for that much he was...not thankful, but a trifle satisfied. 

He had dreamt last night that he had been floating above thin ice, with a constant vexation that the air might lose its hold on him and he would fall, and crash through the surface into the freezing water with the shadowy corpse that lurked just beneath. His toe had grazed the brittle, diamond-like shell with a soft hiss just before he woke. He wasn't sure what to make of it---of course, he rarely tried to make sense of his cluttered, chequered subconscious when it was as unbound as it was in dreams. That, and his mind was already hazy with trying to make sense of the revelations that had passed in front of his face and quite literally through him within the last twenty-four hours.

_So You're Being Possessed By the Spirit of a Hogwarts Founder_ was not likely to be hidden in the library stacks, even in the ever-coveted Restricted Section. There was certainly nothing on the illustrious originator of Slytherin House's tempestuous love affair with the supposedly level-headed creator of Ravenclaw House in any of the history texts Severus had read, and yet the proof of it was seemingly undisputable.

For the hundredth time, he ran every fact he knew of the situation through his head.

One: The possessions did not occur randomly---yet---but precisely at or near midnight, near the witching hour. This was logical; all magic was at its most potent during this time. The possessions did, however, seem to encompass random moments in the lives of the bereaved; times of simple adoration, times of betrayal, hate, desperation; there was no continuity that he could discern.

Two: Rosaline had been affected first. This, too, seemed logical---she was a far more open soul than he, and was thus more vulnerable to having it become swept away by a force stronger than she was.

Three: Residual emotions that clung to his skin like a sticky film. Nowhere near as strong as the ones that crashed over them during the possessions, not even close, but he could not deny that her presence had an affect on him, and the fact that it was slightly positive only made his true feelings toward her that much more negative. The residual was perhaps worse than the concerted. It was like the jeers of a taunting child who adamantly refused to cease its irritation, always stabbing lightly at the surface of his thoughts. Had he been allowed to feel nothing at all for this woman in between the sudden spikes of intense emotion, the situation would have been easier to swallow. As it was, he felt as though he were being unravelled one thread at a time, never truly had control over himself. It was a slow, unrelenting torment, and he despised it. He despised _her_, if just for being the object of his restlessness, no matter if she was or was not to blame for it.

Love is a very human emotion, and Snape had never considered himself human enough to be susceptible to it.

_But then, it's not you who is feeling it, is it? Not really._

He couldn't dispute the thought, and the realisation of Slytherin's own humanity felt strange to him. Severus' house had spent over a millennia cultivating a reputation of ruthlessness, supposedly based on its founder's own lack of scruples. But when it came right down to it, and the lines were drawn in the sand, Hogwarts' four initiators, no matter how powerful and great they had been, _were_ only human. Nothing more than a handful of people with a vision and the means to carry it out. The vision is what made them the god-like creatures they were considered today---to sculpt and mould the future of their race---but not the means. In the reality of their time, they were not the invincible lords and ladies history had fashioned them to be, though they may have left behind a few...divine indications to the contrary.

Four: The Chamber of Secrets. As Head of Slytherin House, Snape was privy to certain facts regarding the dungeons that sheltered his precious serpents---past events, both good and bad that had the potential to resurface in the present (it would figure that the solitary resurfacing event that affected him most would have absolutely no documentation or rumour by which to warn him of what to expect, and why). The Chamber, he knew, was very real indeed, and not merely the product of a cautionary tale that had spanned enough centuries to be labelled as a myth. It had been opened once before, in 1942, by a person unknown---for even without Dumbledore's encouragement, Snape had no trouble believing that there was no way in Heaven or on Earth that the former Gryffindor Rubeus Hagrid was Salazar Slytherin's heir.

The attacks on the students had stopped abruptly following the only death, that of a young Hufflepuff Mudblood whose own ghost now inhabited the second floor girls' bathroom. The details surrounding Hagrid's expulsion from Hogwarts had not been disclosed to Severus, but there had never been mention of spirits of any identity infecting anyone, which meant one of two things: Either it had occurred before, and the two possessed individuals had kept their mouths shut, as he and Rosaline were doing, or it had never happened at all, which seemed to indicate that the reopening of the Chamber had little to do with his and the History of Magic professor's situation. That Rosaline's first two possessions happened seemingly _before_ it had been opened was not lost on him, nor was it conclusive that the Chamber of Secrets truly _was_ open again at all, though the Petrification of Mrs. Norris appeared to solidify that fact. Snape couldn't help but feel as though the writing on the wall was somehow related to what was happening between himself and Rosaline. It had been there, after all, that they had first experienced a shared possession.

The unknown variable of the "who or what" had been pushed aside, and now it was the "why and how" that took its place. Why them? Why now? If the Chamber was open, how? It was doubtless that Slytherin's heir would be in Slytherin House itself, but if the Heir had opened the Chamber fifty years previous, how was he managing to reopen it now? Was there more than one Heir? The Heir of the Heir, who inherited the abilities of his father to unleash the beast contained within the school and finish what his father had started half a century ago? And how were the spirits of Slytherin and Ravenclaw---that she would be invoked as well splayed open a thousand other possibilities---meant to serve this purpose? A love betrayed wasn't exactly conducive to the purging of filthy blood within a learning institution, unless its presence was merely to stoke the flames of hatred already beginning to ignite from the glowing embers of prejudice throughout the school.

Leaning forward, Severus pressed his fingertips to his temples. His mind was twisting itself into the mental equivalent of a Celtic knot cut into bits and pieces, the logic that should have entwined the instances together lost on him, leading him only to more questions he could not find the answers to. He felt like a blind man in a cave, searching for a candle that was lit over one thousand years ago, and with good reason.

One cannot understand what one does not embrace. It was akin to expecting knowledge by simply holding a book, but never reading it. He did not _want_ this, did not want to embrace it, and did not want to embrace her in order to fathom it. The awareness he was grasping for was woven into a burning tapestry, like having to reach into a cauldron of acid in order to extract a healing bezoar from its belly. If he did not acquire it, he felt as though he might go mad; if he attempted to attain it, then he was putting his sanity at risk for that same descent.

_You're damned if you do, and damned if you don't._

But if that was the case, then he would not. If he was damned either way, he would not pursue this any further than it dictated him to. He was no stranger to accepting responsibility for his actions, and if madness and condemnation were what awaited him, then he would succumb to them by his own hand, and not by hers.

The memory of the previous night's possession floated languorously behind his eyes, held at the surface of his thoughts: _"...it may be my knife, Salazar, but if it is in your back then it is there by your own hand. If you feel you have been slain, then it has been by your own arrogance, and not by me."_

Severus smiled faintly, grimly. "Perhaps Lady Ravenclaw was something of a latent prophetess..." he mused aloud, then sat back and ran both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face. It was then he noticed that he was not the only person in the room as he had thought---the Grey Lady hovered near the door, and was watching him with an intent expression on her face. He arched an eyebrow at her. "Yes?" he demanded, his voice filled with annoyance at having been snuck up on by yet another ghost.

"I was only wondering about your sudden interest in Ravenclaws, Professor Snape," the spectre answered him softly, more than a hint of suspicion in her silvered eyes.

"Mind your own business," he snapped, rising to leave. She stopped him with an icy hand on his shoulder that froze him in his tracks.

"Ravenclaw House _is_ my business, Professor. And as both a Ravenclaw and my friend, so is Professor Rosebridge."

Severus glared at the ghost and was silent for a moment, contemplating how best to respond without giving her the upper hand in a conversation he was certain would quickly end up an argument. "What does _she_ have to do with anything?" he finally decided on, the third word all but spat out in contempt.

"Don't play me for a fool, Professor. Something is going on between the two of you. She's been distant these last few days, but I've been watching her, and from the looks she has when her eyes come to rest on _you_, then it must be _you_ who is the cause of her vexation."

"Need I point out, milady," said Severus, "that _many_ people are vexed by me. I don't see your hackles raising over the state of Neville Longbottom's trousers after a Potions class; why should Professor Rosebridge be any different?"

"Mr. Longbottom is in Gryffindor. He is not my concern and the Sorting Hat obviously believed him capable of handling himself."

"And you don't believe Professor Rosebridge can handle herself, is that it? My, my. With her _friends_ so confident in her ability to take care of herself, it's no wonder the girl is always so skittish."

"I only worry for her well being because of all she has been through," the Grey Lady maintained, keeping her voice controlled and quiet. Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure the poor thing has been through hell and back," he mockingly sneered, and the ghost's scowl intensified.

"She has---and unlike some people, she was not so weak as to willingly join her demons," she hissed, rising a few inches into the air to look down her nose scathingly at the Potions master, who was by now looking equally malicious.

"I'd consult the scars on her wrists before making such a claim if I were you."

The phantom looked momentarily taken aback---clearly, she had not been as perceptive about the History of Magic professor's former liaisons with darkness as he had. But then, few people were as perceptive as he was to begin with. 

With a nasty smirk of satisfaction, Severus walked through her without a word, his jaw clenching at the familiar feeling of ice sliding over his skin to be absorbed into his bones, and left the Grey Lady to her stunned silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On Saturday, try as he might, Filius Flitwick could not extract the History of Magic professor from her rooms. The first Quidditch match of the season was scheduled for the day, but she had made it clear she did not wish to attend, claiming she hadn't slept on Thursday night from having procrastinated about marking three classes' worth of essays that had needed to be handed back on Friday. He would have suggested that a little sunlight might help her to perk up some, but even the heavens were working against him; ominous charcoal clouds had cloaked the sun in a death shroud by mid-morning.

He was worried about her, and knew that her excuse wasn't entirely truthful. She had been listless for over a week now. His paternal instincts combined with the general sense of curiosity that was characteristic of Ravenclaw House told him to sit down and have it out with her until she finally admitted what was bothering her, but he pushed them aside. She was an adult now, no longer one of his students, and it was not his place to intrude on her personal affairs.

He was almost anticipating the day when her diet of tea and toast---which appeared to be all she ever ate anymore---would finally catch up with her health. He did not wish to see her ill, but a day or so confined to the hospital wing would give him reason enough to pry. If whatever was going on in her private life affected her ability to successfully teach her classes, then it was technically his right, in a professional sense, to know what was going on with her.

Even the infectious Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match could not distract his mind once his focus was set on other matters. Seated next to him in the stands, Professor Snape didn't seem to be paying any attention to the game, and Filius had a feeling that, had Slytherin not been playing and their head of house was thus not obligated to attend the match, he wouldn't have been there. Snape didn't so much as blink when Chaser Marcus Flint hurled the Quaffle past Gryffindor's Keeper, Oliver Wood, for the third time, raising Slytherin's score by another ten points so that they now led the match fifty to zero. Flitwick narrowed his eyes---that wasn't like the Potions master at all. In his school days, Snape himself had been a Chaser for Slytherin House, and normally took quite an interest in the sport. While he could never be found cheering his charges on, he followed their matches with a hawk-like gaze that never missed a move. Something would have to be troubling him deeply to draw his concentration so far away from the match. Come to think of it, his overall demeanour had seemed rather distracted for the last week or so as well.

Filius was not close to the Slytherin, but there was a level of respect between the two of them that came with their head of house titles and their shared attraction to the sport of duelling. Usually they interacted cordially, certainly more politely and amicably than Snape's relationships with some of the other teachers, but now the Charms professor felt a tinge of unease prickle at the back of his neck. He pushed it away---there, his own emotions explained the coincidence. The whole of the faculty had been tense since Halloween night, and there was no more reason to connect Snape's agitation to Rosaline's dreary mood anymore than there was to connect his own restlessness to it. The Potions master was singled out often enough in such matters by both students and teachers alike, even if the latter were more clandestine in their displays of wariness; he didn't need Filius to unfairly add to that.

The writing on the wall proclaiming the opening of the Chamber of Secrets had everyone on edge, and though the majority of the staff were trying to convince themselves and the students that it had been nothing more than an austere and mean-spirited prank, no one could relax completely. Filius himself had not been present at Hogwarts during the original unlocking of the Chamber; he had been pushing forty at the time, and his career as a duelling champion had been winding down as fresh blood had arrived on the scene, young men and women itching to prove their worth through the art. He had first heard of the phenomenon through those young mouths, and like the rest, he had been dubious of the authenticity of their assertions. All that had changed but a few years later, when he had come to the school to teach after Dumbledore's defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald. Dumbledore, then serving as Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor with a young Minerva McGonagall as his assistant, had been the only member of the faculty who had not immediately gone silent when Filius mentioned the Chamber to him. "Oh, it does exist, I assure you," the century-old wizard had maintained. "But if it is ever to be opened again, it will not happen anytime in the near future."

Now, Filius almost smiled to himself---the future, it seemed, was always closer than one anticipated. Dumbledore had yet to say whether or not he believed the Chamber to be open once more, and when the wise headmaster was uncertain, it never failed to translate into an unspoken acknowledgement that yes, their fears were being realised. Yes, the Chamber of Secrets was open again. But what there was to be done about it...

It began to rain in large, fat drops. Filius pulled the hood of his deep violet cloak over his head.

It was not a comforting thought that there was nothing else for it but to sit and wait it all out. The heir would have graduated some fifty years ago, and now there was no way of knowing how or by whom Slytherin's morbid legacy had been drawn ajar, let alone where. No one but the heir had ever been able to decipher that particular secret. No one but the heir possessed the figurative key. The castle had been scoured for the infamous hall countless times by those who had become obsessed with its legend, and to no avail, if one did not count the discovery of Ravenclaw's private library, Hufflepuff's underground gardens and Gryffindor's personal armoury (the sword from which was now proudly displayed in the headmaster's office). The Chamber remained as cloaked in mystery as ever, an enigma that begged to be solved with more and more urgency with each passing day.

The animosity between the houses, Gryffindor and Slytherin especially, had already begun to amplify. Even Filius' own Ravenclaws, who were usually tolerant and even at times friendly with the snake house, were beginning to send scathing glares the Slytherins' way, the pureblood students included. It was out of character for them to behave so malevolently, and because of what was currently a rather weak trigger. Their fiercely analytical minds naturally dispelled most rumours until proof of their truth was given. That the writing on the wall _was_ merely some foolish prank was still a possibility, albeit a scant one, and customarily they would have clung to that until irrefutable evidence had been unearthed. Their reaction to the Chamber was, to say the least, out of the ordinary.

But then, nothing felt ordinary at the moment.

With a heavy sigh, Filius turned to the Potions master. Idle chit-chat was not one of Snape's favourite past-times, but the Charms professor overlooked the fact, feeling that any distraction from the anxious atmosphere (helped in no way by the rain, which was now coming down in torrents) was both welcome and needed.

Out on the pitch, Balthazar Montague scored another goal, nudging the Slytherin team's lead up another ten points. The score now stood sixty to zero.

"Those new broomsticks seem to be all but paying for themselves, eh?" he commented in what he hoped was a light tone of voice. Snape glanced at him out of the corner his eye for a moment, then grunted an unintelligible response. Not giving up just yet, Filius tried again, this time taking notice of the Seekers, who had yet to attempt a capture of the Golden Snitch. "Oh dear. Young Potter's not faring too well against that Bludger, is he?"

Indeed, Harry Potter seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble with one of the black balls, which appeared to be targeting him specifically. Every time he dodged it, it would swing back around to try and hit him again. _That can't be right..._ Filius thought to himself, forgetting his attempts at conversation with Snape (whose scowl only deepened at the mention of the second-year Gryffindor's name and would probably be a horrid raconteur at the moment anyway). If it was distraction he craved, he got it---after two more tries, the Bludger finally made contact with Potter's arm, nearly knocking the boy off his broom. The crowd released a collective gasp as Potter clung dazedly to his Nimbus Two Thousand by his right leg alone. A few of the Slytherin students in the stands had begun to chant "Fall! Fall! Fall!"

The boy disappointed them as the Bludger returned for a second assault, this one aimed at his face. He struggled to right himself, then bolted at top speed for the opposing team's Seeker. Draco Malfoy swerved out of the way in alarm, and at Potter's outstretched hand, Filius knew what the boy had been doing.

Another cry rose up from the onlookers as Potter sagged over his broomstick and began to plummet the fifteen-foot distance to the ground. He hit the mud and rolled, his right arm bent at a very awkward angle, and the hand of his left clutching the Snitch. A triumphant howl burst from three-quarters of the stands, and Filius found himself enthusiastically contributing to the raucous applause echoing throughout the pitch.

"Well done!" he called out, and then remember he was seated right next to the Head of Slytherin House. He turned to see Snape's reaction to his house's loss---but the Potions master had already risen and was exiting the drenched stands, looking not so much livid as mildly annoyed, and the Charms professor knew that Quidditch was one of the furthest things from the dark man's mind. His mind flashed once more to Rosaline's recent spiral into the morose, the tinge of suspicion again spiking his emotions. 

Filius forced the feeling away for the second time, and returned his gaze to the Quidditch pitch, where Gilderoy Lockhart was kneeling over the now unconscious Harry Potter and brandishing his wand ("Yes, it's very nice, isn't it? Ash and one unicorn tail hair, ten and one-half inches!"). He shook his head forlornly---this could not end in victory---and wondered if Madam Pomfrey was in enough of an experimental mood to physically injure the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in order to test a few new healing potions that had yet to be cleared by the Ministry of Magic as "relatively safe for use on humans, but if you start growing moss out of your ears, don't say we didn't warn you." He doubted he would find the results of the potions---whatever they would turn out to be---unpleasant.

Unless, of course, they worked.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The night hung like a dark curtain over the Scottish countryside, its velvet fingers slipping between the seams of the windows and into the castle, iridescent moonlight reflecting off the shadows in sharp silver threads. The stone floor was cold beneath Rosaline's bare feet as she padded through the halls. She shivered and pulled her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders, it and her sheer white nightdress her only protection against the early November chill.

Unable to sleep for the third time in as many nights, she had opted to head down to the kitchens with the hope that a hot cup of Earl Grey might sooth her enough for at least a couple hours' slumber. As she walked, she couldn't help but wonder if Rowena Ravenclaw herself had taken this same path to fulfil the same purpose during her own tenure at the school.

Or perhaps to meet Salazar in the dungeons for a midnight rendezvous.

She shook the thought from her head, and turned left after stepping off of the third floor staircase. This was a longer way down to the kitchens, but further from the entrance to the dungeons. Rosaline did not feel like risking an encounter with the Potions master tonight, though she knew in the back of her mind that which direction she chose to take had nothing to do with whether or not they would meet if that is what the spirits wished.

She glanced at a grandfather clock standing regally next to a suit of armour that raised the face of its helmet in a greeting as she passed---only five minutes until twelve. Five minutes until she was safe from succumbing to the whims of Ravenclaw, for tonight at least. She sped up her pace.

A sudden wave of cold air washed over her, followed by an ethereal hiss, and Rosaline's heart skipped a beat until she remembered that this section of the castle was always more draughty than the others.

"Get a bloody grip, would you?" she muttered to herself. "It's only the wind..."

Vaguely, she remembered that some cultures considered wind to be a portent of wicked things to come. The notion did not help her state of mind, and she pushed it away with the majority of her other thoughts, limiting herself to an internal mantra of _Tea...tea...tea...tea..._

Her feet had by now gone from cold to numb. The windows released another menacing hiss, this one sounding almost as though it were closer than the last. A rush of adrenaline borne from dread surged through her, causing gooseflesh to raise on her skin with an uncomfortable tingle. _This is what the prey feels like right before the predator strikes._

She could feel an almost palpable burn between her shoulder blades, the sort of sensation that accompanies the feeling of being held captive under a particularly intense stare. Her thoughts shifted fleetingly to Snape and the way his eyes could almost pierce flesh with their gaze if he only looked hard enough at a person, and then her mind left her completely in favour of panic. Preferring flight to fight and not daring to turn around, her swift walk turned into a much swifter run. The corridor around her turned into a blur, blued with the night. Something was creeping up on her, chasing her. She could practically feel its fetid breath on her neck, and a bitter taste welled in the back of her throat that whatever it was it was going to overtake her at any moment---

---but it didn't. She could still feel its presence behind her, almost...almost deliberately keeping itself just beyond reach of her.

Rosaline didn't care. She kept running, and did not stop until she had bolted through the door at the end of the hall and slammed it shut behind her. There was a soft, almost grating sound just beyond the protective oak barrier between she and it, like something was being dragged across the stone floor, and then, there was silence, broken only by her harsh, quick breaths and the pounding rush of her blood in her ears.

A nearby clock struck midnight with a loud, echoing gong, and Rosaline jumped, a startled gasp escaping her lips. It wasn't until the eighth chime that she managed to somewhat calm herself, one hand clasped tightly around the collar of her dressing gown, the other pressed against her stomach. 

_Gods above---what _was_ that? It was like a..._

Like a what?

Like nothing she had ever felt before.

Slowly, shakily, she disentangled her fingers that had been gripping the collar of her dressing gown and reached back to feel the nape of her neck, the only part of her body that was not cold with fright---quite the opposite. The skin there was warm, too warm. Whatever that...thing...had been, its breath _burned_, not like fire so much as like steam, and it had decidedly _not_ felt human.

_A side effect of the possessions?_ she wondered. _Or perhaps something completely different altogether..._

As her heart and breath quieted, and her skin cooled further, the rational part of her brain began to return. Doubt slipped taciturnly in beside it, and nestled itself firmly within the analytical workings of her mind.

_Or perhaps it was nothing more than your imagination getting the better of you. Your thoughts are already tainted with the transcendental goings on that have beset your nights, and your daylight ruminations. Perhaps you were simply running like a madwoman for no apparent reason. Oh, pardon---there _was_ a reason for it in that you _are_ a madwoman. That justifies your actions nicely._

She would have replied, had a new sound not met her ears, this one unmistakeable---a woman's voice, speaking softly at first and then rising shrilly as if terrified. Rosaline's eyes darted around, scanning her surroundings, lingering on shifty-looking shadows. With bated breath, she crept silently nearer to the banister to glance down at the floors below, careful to keep herself concealed and out of the moonlight streaming through the high, arching windows engrained within the walls on either side of the massive open room.

A second voice joined the first one, this one lower and more masculine, as Rosaline's hands closed tightly around the balustrade, and she leaned cautiously forward. There, two staircases below, the headmaster and deputy headmistress were conversing in whispered, urgent tones on either side of what appeared to be a short statue. They were speaking too quietly for her to make out what they were saying, but judging from McGonagall's frantic state and Dumbledore's own furrowed brow (not to mention the fact that Rosaline was certain there were no statues inhabiting _any_ of the staircases in Hogwarts), there was something about the situation that was obviously cause for alarm.

She watched as Dumbledore eased the statue down to a forty-five degree angle, and McGonagall lifted up the other end. A pale ray of moonlight was cast over the statue's face, illuminating it for a moment before the two educators began to gently carry it up the steps. Rosaline's mouth parted in a silent "O" of surprise as she recognised the face---it did not belong to any statue; it was one of her students, a first-year Gryffindor boy called Colin Creevey. She'd know that camera anywhere with as often as he had it brandished and ready to click away at anything that struck his fancy---which happened to be most of the school and its denizens.

He'd been Petrified, just as Filch's cat had been. The Chamber...

Rosaline hesitated for a moment, not wanting to make her presence known, but definitely not wanting to try to return to her rooms after her near confrontation with the mysterious creature in the corridor behind her, either, Creevey's Petrified state convincing her that it had not merely been her overactive imagination that had been chasing her. 

Wordlessly, Rosaline followed her two superiors at a distance, keeping to the shadows. The hospital wing was only one floor down from where she had been standing, and it was quickly evident that that was where young Creevey was being taken. She waited at the end of the hall as Dumbledore backed into the infirmary, followed a second later by McGonagall. Rosaline traced their steps, stopping just outside the doors to listen to the hushed voices within.

"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," came McGonagall's voice. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."

"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey.

"Yes," the deputy headmistress answered. "But I shudder to think...If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate---who knows what might have---"

Rosaline swallowed with some difficulty, and wondered if Dumbledore had heard anything like the horrible slithering sounds that had followed her in the third floor corridor.

"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" McGonagall spoke again. Neither Pomfrey nor Dumbledore responded, and Rosaline frowned and pressed her ear to the door to listen in more closely. There was a low hissing sound, and then Pomfrey's startled voice rang out.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "Melted. All melted."

And then McGonagall asked the question that Rosaline had been half dreading, half needing to hear the answer to spoken aloud: "What does this _mean_, Albus?"

"It means," said Dumbledore, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."

Rosaline's blood froze, and her heartbeat quickened. There was a short, stunned silence from within the hospital wing.

"But, Albus..." McGonagall murmured, "surely..._who_?"

"The question is not _who_," Dumbledore said grimly. "The question is, _how_..."

The History of Magic professor's head snapped up at the headmaster's words. What did the old wizard mean by that? Did he know who was responsible for the attacks? Or was he simply generalising---the Chamber of Secrets was open, and who else but the Heir of Slytherin could have ensured that? Did he know what was going on, and if he did, how much did he know that he was not letting on?

The urge to tell him of what had been happening between herself and Snape seized hold of Rosaline---if Dumbledore knew what was going on with the Chamber, he might know what was going on with the restless spirits of Slytherin and Ravenclaw, he might know how to put an end to the possessions---

---but if he knew, if anything like this had happened before, wouldn't he have been expecting it to happen again? Wouldn't he have at least warned the staff of the possibility? "The Chamber of Secrets might be open, so I want you all to keep an eye out for any Petrified animals, vegetables, and/or minerals. Oh and, by the way, two of you may become possessed by the obsessed and lovesick spirits of Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw. Have a nice day."

Perhaps that had been addressed at the staff meeting the Thursday she'd taken ill in October.

As her mood continued to darken with refuted hopes, Dumbledore's voice resonated through the door once more.

"Minerva, would you be good enough to owl Mr. Creevey's father and inform him of his son's condition as soon as possible? He would want to know."

"Certainly," McGonagall absently agreed, still sounding shocked. Rosaline could hear the Transfiguration professor's footsteps heading for the doors, and ducked into a shadow-shrouded corner at the end of the hall. McGonagall emerged from the hospital wing, looking so preoccupied she probably wouldn't have noticed if Rosaline had been standing not a foot in front of her. Once she had rounded the corner at the opposite end of the corridor, Rosaline stood and started off in the direction of the kitchens, her head swirling with questions to which she was continuously helpless to find out the answers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

  
_A/N:_ Must acknowledge the movie Stigmata, as I snatched a line from it. 

Thank you to all my nice and patient reviewers. Currently unable to get to my authorpage, so I can't respond to you all personally, but you're all much appreciated. :) 


	6. In Screams

**Chapter 6 - In Screams**  


The news of Colin Creevey's Petrification had spread like wildfire, and there wasn't a soul in the school who wasn't aware of the fate that had befallen the young Gryffindor by Monday morning. The Muggle-born and halfblood students had taken to covering themselves with all sorts of mainly useless trinkets, amulets, and some just plain foul items---gods only knew where Stephen Cornfoot had got hold of a fossilised Clabbert pustule fashioned into a talisman, or why he thought it would provide him any sort of protection whatsoever. Weren't Ravenclaws supposed to be clever? 

By Tuesday, the atmosphere in the castle had not improved, nor had Snape expected it to. The only relatively good things to happen was the postponement of Gilderoy Lockhart's first Duelling Club meeting and demonstration until December (as hexes and overexcited adolescents rarely mixed well together), and the blessed lack of spiritual possessions between Rosaline and himself. Though the former was a slight disappointment to Snape---he did so want to curse the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor well into the next millennia---seeing any of Lockhart's dreams crushed, no matter how small or how temporary, did bring him some satisfaction. 

But there was no sneer, not even a smirk, on Severus' face as he stared down at the essays he was meant to be marking, and every so often glanced up to glare at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw fifth-years that made up his third class of the day. The dungeons had already started to chill with the impending winter, and the air in the classroom was nearly cold enough that, if one put enough effort into it, one could see their breath fog in front of them. For once, all of the students seemed to be diligently working from _Magical Draughts and Potions_, which meant that they were not panting at the air, which meant that they all might indeed (the Ravenclaws in particular) escape a Potions lesson without getting a single point deducted from their houses---a feat which hadn't happened in a good two years, as Roger Davies and Victor MacFarlan had a habit of playing small games of mini-Quidditch using rolled bits of paper as makeshift Quaffles, which they would attempt to toss through the circles of their thumbs and forefingers and generally cause much disruption no matter which class they happened to be in at the time. Other than the bubbling, steaming cauldrons, the soft scratching sounds of quills against parchment, and the occasional plop as a new ingredient was added into the mix, the classroom was silent. 

And it was slowly driving Snape mad. 

It mightn't have had such an adverse effect on his disposition had his mind not been so intolerably loud in contrast, drowning out his focus in a sea of random noise that, no matter how he tried, refused to sort itself out into isolated, sensible thoughts. 

Grinding his teeth together in annoyance, he finally resigned to stand, and began scouring the rows irately for mistakes in either the students' potions or their written work. A few of them glanced up as he sauntered past, thoroughly scrutinised their success, uttered a few scathing orders or insults or both, then moved on. None of them let their gazes linger for long, though, as if they thought staring him in the eye would have the same results as staring a rabid dog in the eye---namely, a provocation silently stating that yes, they in fact did wish to have their throats torn out today. 

After he had finished, Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and made his way back toward the front of the classroom, feeling a headache that would most likely last for days beginning to creep up around his eyes. Sweeping his black robes behind him, he returned to his desk and encircled an error in the essay on the top of the stack, going over the line many times simply for the sake of being obnoxious. 

Dark gods, what was wrong with his brain today? It felt as badly compiled as one of Neville Longbottom's potions, and about as virulent as well. For a few moments, he merely sat like a catatonic, quill poised in his hand, staring blankly at the erroneous essay as he attempted to will the concentration back into his mind. 

It worked. The abominable noise occupying his skull slowly quieted to a dull hum, like the echoing note of a piano key that had been tapped too hard. 

There are many instances in which one should heed the warning, "Be careful what you wish for." For instance, if one wished for five thousand Galleons in canvas satchels, and a second later, five thousand Galleons in canvas satchels appeared, then one would naturally be pleased with the lucky development. Later on, however, after learning that, while the money appeared to come out of thin air, it had actually come out of Gringotts due to a goblin who was terrible at transportation spells but had excellent timing, the situation would obviously worsen and one may very well find themselves with a lovely view of the sea surrounding Azkaban sometime in the near future. They _did_ get what they wished for, but unfortunately, what they wished for came with a set of severe and objectionable consequences. 

Snape's objectionable consequences for wishing the noise in his head to fade---which it did---was that in his wish, he did not specify that silence was the optimal and expected result. The intolerable noise only muted itself to make room for more noise---a very different sort of noise indeed. 

It began softly, so softly he scarcely paid any mind to it. Nothing more than a quiet, high-pitched hiss that grazed his ears with a feather-light touch that enabled it to blend in easily with the background buzz occupying his mind. It sounded sudden when its volume rose dramatically, waking him from his half daze with a start. His head jerked up, eyes darting around the room in alarm, but none of the students seemed to have heard it. He wondered how they could have missed it; it had been quite loud, and far too familiar for comfort. 

Severus had heard many screams in his lifetime. So many that he had learned by the age of seventeen to differentiate the sorts of screams the world had to offer. Frustration and ecstasy, excitement, terror and agony---each had their own signature sound, octaves in a primal song, and the scream that echoed off the dungeon walls and into his skull was unmistakeably one composed of the latter two emotions, and unmistakeably that of a youthful voice. 

There---a second scream, this one with an element of weakness, choked off and ending in a low, sickly sob, and still his students didn't seem to notice it. At fifteen, they should have at least paused in their work at the sound of someone, anyone---anything---being tortured. Severus nearly smirked; his own ears having been trained at one time to ignore such things, he wondered if he would have paid any mind to the sound had it not been present in Hogwarts' hallowed halls---_his_ hallowed halls. There was no way that the sound was not coming from somewhere within the dungeons, and whatever was deafening his pupils to it was for some reason having no effect on him. 

_They're meant for you. The screams are meant for you._

His brow furrowed at the thought, and a third scream resonated through the stone corridors and into his classroom, into his head, this one preceded by a sharp crack, like the snap of a bone, or the crack of a whip. 

Snape rose abruptly, and his chair nearly toppled over with the force with which he stood. A few of the students jumped, startled, and gazed up at their teacher with wide, skittish eyes. He stepped forward, and they shrank back as if he had made to strike them---terror. 

One of the Ravenclaw prefects---Clearwater, that was her name---tilted her head curiously to the side, a frown marring her pretty face. "...Sir?" she tentatively ventured, but her voice was drowned out by yet another crack, another scream. Each was more violent, more...persuasive...than the last. Snape ignored her and made his way toward the door, a sharp chill running down along his spine. 

"Sir?" the girl tried again, but the only answer she received was the loud slam of the door as the Potions master abandoned his classroom. 

In the hallway, Snape stopped, and listened as if awaiting a command. 

_From the left,_ his mind hissed, and he started in that direction. The screams were more frequent now, one immediately following the other, more than one voice, entwining with the cracks, crunches and sizzles in an aria of anguish that had not filled the dungeons in decades, centuries. He reached the end of the corridor, and the strange hiss that coiled around his thoughts spoke again: _Right._

Once more, he followed it, and continued to take the direction it ordered through the murky labyrinth of the dungeons. The deeper he travelled, the more acute his senses became. The scent of mildew hung thick in the air, and the closer he got to his mysterious destination, other smells mingled as well---something warm, charred, and a metallic tang too fresh for its dark, aged tomb. Burnt flesh. Spilt blood. The scents of suffering perfumed the air so copiously he could all but taste them on his tongue. 

The torches that lined the walls sprang to life for the first time in years, illuminating his path and destroying the spiderwebs that had been strung along their tops, but were now forsaken. Now and then he would come across the skeletons of rats, even one of a cat, its jaws parted in a mute howl of fright. Little white warnings standing guard, letting him know that despite the screams, which were growing louder by the second, every creature that walked this path was silenced eventually. 

An elation he had not felt in over a decade suddenly sprang to life within him at the sights, sounds and scents of this place, this foreboding journey. He remembered the last time he had been in such an environment, and enjoyed it. The shrieks of the lesser beings who were being quite clearly informed of their mortality. When bequeathing pain and torment upon others as freely as Saint Nicholas bequeathed Christmas gifts upon good little children had been second nature to him, and he had relished it, bathed in their misery and felt godlike with the remnants of their despair on his skin. In youth, when his own immortality had never been questioned, until one day someone finally told the monster that he was indeed a man... 

_Here._

For the second time, he stopped, this time in front of an oak door coated with dust and grime. The sounds were strongest here, rich with agony, and he closed his eyes to better savour them. He could hear the whispering arc of the whip before it struck flesh and cracked its climax with the slicing skin. He could smell the smoke rising with a sultry hiss as it unfurled from a hot poker meeting fingers. And he could feel the cold breath of a cruel murmur in his bones, the most severe punishment, and the softest one spoken, "_Crucio_." 

Slowly, he reached out a hand and grasped the door handle. The filthy iron should have been as chilled as the dungeons themselves, but to him it felt warm, polished and often used. He paused for a moment, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth metal, taking time to appreciate the feel of it as though it were a long-lost and much treasured possession. 

Possession. 

Severus opened his eyes, and opened the door. 

The new air rushed into the room like a gust of wind, stealing away whatever delight he had felt as it also stole away the scents and sounds that had been resonating throughout the dungeons for the last half hour. Hushed were the screams until they became dead as those who had first emanated them. Gone was the heady smell of burning human flesh. Quieted was the whispered Cruciatus Curse. All that was left was a cold, pitch black dungeon, empty but for a few unravelled cobwebs drifting in the slight breeze of the open door. 

A sickening knot formed in the pit of Snape's stomach as he stared into the abyss of the room, as if he expected it to come to life again at any given moment. The sudden absence of the fleeting euphoria that had swept into his mind brought forth the memories of why that particular drug had ceased to bring him pleasure long ago, and the double tinge of both fright and exhilaration that it had managed to leak into his system once more made him feel ill with uncertainty and agitation. 

This had been a possession of a different sort, more like the Imperius Curse that he had first suspected but knew to be a false half hope regarding his ethereal night-time encounters with Rosaline. He had been led here by a force beyond his control, yes, but this time...this time, the emotions had been his own, long-buried and thought dead. He had attended their funeral with a gift of poison that had nearly destroyed him completely, but here, now, they had risen just the same, like a disembodied Lazarus, the first vampire to ever walk the earth. 

Like a vampire, the emotions leeched his strength from him, and he braced his left arm against the wall to steady himself through a wave of dizziness that made his legs feel weak and his eyes feel tired. 

With careful, deliberate steps, he entered the dungeon and drew out his wand from the pocket of his robes. 

"_Lumos_," he whispered, and the blackness of the room was kept at bay by a soft glow of pale green light that encircled the tip of his wand. Severus surveyed his surroundings. 

Against the centre of the far wall sat a crude wooden bed with leather straps and silver buckles, and tightly braided ropes wound 'round a large wooden wheel. In the corner furthest from him was a large silver bowl resting on a high stone platform---a dish to keep the fire in---and nestled at its base like loyal pets were the pokers, still blackened from use as recently as two centuries ago. Hanging on the wall nearest to him was the whip, coiled like a great black serpent on an old and rusted nail, its tip still crusted with the dried blood of its last and final victim. If the amount of filth covering everything in the room was any indication, this chamber had not been opened in years. No fresh blood, no flame-engulfed pokers, no recent screams. All in his head. 

_Fuck,_ he censored himself, as if he feared the sound of his voice would shatter whatever magic held the dungeons intact and kept the rest of the school from falling into them. _This is madness._

This was daylight. Hours until sunset, even longer until midnight. This was daylight. He'd been drawn from his own classroom, with his students right in front of him, pulled halfway out of his mind as though he'd been swept up in a memory---for that is what this had felt like, the past. Still where it belonged, but slipping gradually into the present as if it had found a leak in time. The possessions had infected him; now the virus was slithering just beneath his skin, biding its time until the moment was ripe for a physical manifestation. 

They were growing stronger. 

Rosaline---had she experienced anything of this sort? The chances were high that she would fall victim to this sort of...episode...before he would. But if she had, why wouldn't she mention it to him? Was she keeping things from him? 

_No, you daft prat. You've made it quite clear to her that you wish to deal with this matter privately, in the singular sense, i.e. without _her. _It's possible she _tried _to tell you and you wouldn't allow her to get a word in edge-wise._

But Snape didn't want to hear her words on the subject. He didn't want to hear his words on the subject, for that meant that there was a subject in the first place, and one he didn't want to be included in. 

_Don't try to fool yourself. You're horrible at it._

He was, and perhaps an even greater annoyance than the situation itself was that it would not let him ignore it. He clung childishly to his futile rebellion of it, not wanting to hear it or see it, or think of it or speak of it. 

But then, he wasn't too keen on be lured by phantom screams to an abandoned torture chamber whose current purpose was to collect dust while he was in the middle of teaching a class, either. It was, to put it mildly, quite the conundrum. 

_Fuck._

"_Nox_." 

The morbid sight of the room faded abruptly to black as the light from his wand was extinguished. Still not knowing precisely what it was he was going to or was meant to do, Snape left the chamber and shut the door behind him, then began to retrace his steps back to his classroom. His students would know better than to ask where he went, and for once he found himself looking forward to their oblivious expressions and blissfully ignorant young minds. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Rosaline forwent her tea with Flitwick once again that afternoon, choosing instead to shut herself up in her rooms with the Witch Wireless Network and a stack of assignments to mark. The low writing desk she worked at was positioned in front of one of the windows that faced the lake---not a very good place for a writing desk, really, for it was all too easy for Rosaline to simply glance up and lose herself in reveries. 

It was raining outside, a steady grey drizzle that cast the world in a gloomy shadow. Though it was scarcely half past four, she had to light a candle in order to see what she was doing, and every so often wondered where in the world some of her students had learned such horrible penmanship. She'd had to read over Fred Weasley's paper thrice before she'd managed to grasp the basic skeleton of what the boy was trying to say; his brother George's paper hadn't been much better. 

_"...and it was in this way that the Grand High Pillocks (Wizard's Council) came to the decision that the Dungbombs (Danish) were full of shite (new ideas) about how wizarding governments should be run (away from)." Well. Not much use in deducting points on the basis of someone's opinion..._

"At least his facts are accurate," she sighed to herself, and after measuring the scroll to be sure it was of the proper length, scrawled down a decent mark at the top of the parchment. "On to Miss Bell's..." Katie Bell's assignment was at least, to Rosaline's relief, legible. 

A brief flash of lightning lit up the lake momentarily, drawing the History of Magic professor's attention toward the window yet again as a low boom of thunder rumbled across the skies. What had started out as an autumn shower was rapidly winding itself into a storm. 

Plump droplets streaked down the glass as if they were racing against each other. Now and again, a sharp gust of wind would send the rain knocking against the window like drumming fingernails demanding entrance. It was no wonder to Rosaline that the ancients thought of weather not as acts of the gods, but as the gods themselves. Why not? she bitterly mused. _Everything else in this damned world has something hidden and waiting to break free._

She sighed once more, and forced herself to return to her work. Flitwick had been disappointed and more than a little troubled-looking when she had declined his invitation to tea yet again, which meant that she would have to hurry with her work if she wanted to make it down to dinner and prove to him that she did indeed still eat, which would hopefully be enough to appease him, if only temporarily. 

"Why can no one accept that I only wish to be left alone?" she wondered aloud, her eyes flickering toward the window despite her resolve. 

"Why can't _you_ accept that we only pry because we fear for you?" 

Rosaline jumped at the voice, her heart taking a short plunge into her stomach for a second as Katie Bell's assignment fell from her hand, then promptly curled up just before it hit the floor. Rosaline twisted around in her seat, calming a bit when she saw that it was only the Grey Lady, who was waist-deep in the floor but floating up into the room completely as the young witch watched. 

"Lady Jane, I really _do_ wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that," she snapped in annoyance, then immediately regretted sounding so cross. 

"Perhaps I wouldn't need to sneak up on you, if you would only stop avoiding me as if I carried the plague," the spectre bit back, and the guilt occupying Rosaline's stomach gave an uncomfortable wrench. 

"I...I haven't been avoiding you," she lied, and knew that there was no way her words sounded genuine. The Grey Lady arched a disbelieving eyebrow and bore down on the History of Magic professor with a piercing, regal stare. "Look," Rosaline tried again, "I'm sorry. I just...I've got a lot of work to sort through right now and I---" 

"Hold your tongue, girl," the ghost cut her off, and the young witch frowned, taken aback. The Grey Lady had never sounded so harsh before. "You have been keeping things from me." 

"What?" Rosaline blinked. "No---" 

"And you have been lying, to myself and to Professor Flitwick. Something is going on, and I demand to know what it is." There was a tinge of hurt in the ghost's voice instilled along with its cold inflection, and Rosaline found it difficult to swallow her remorse and build up her indignation. She was aching to spill her secrets, to tell the phantom what was happening to herself and Professor Snape. The Grey Lady already knew of the first possession, and the dream---surely she would understand...but Rosaline couldn't risk it, couldn't risk the possibility that the ghost could let something slip, or go to Dumbledore despite Rosaline's wishes. The Grey Lady was a good friend, and cared for the woman she had once sat through the long nights with when the woman had been a girl---but that was just it. She cared too much. She would think she was doing the right thing by going to the headmaster, would think she was doing what was best for Rosaline. 

Would she be right? Was that best? What would Snape do when he found out? And why the hell did Rosaline care so much? 

The History of Magic professor looked away for a moment, then shook her head. There were still too many questions, too many possible outcomes. Now was not the right time. 

_Will there ever be a right time?_ she wondered. _A thousand years might not be long enough..._

"There's nothing," she softly insisted. "I've just been in a rotten mood lately, and I didn't think it would be fair to expose anyone else to it unless I had to." _Please believe me. Please just let this go._

To Rosaline's surprise, a small, sad smile formed on the Grey Lady's pale lips, but it was soon replaced by the same icy glare she had entered the room with. 

"More lies?" she asked. "I never realised was little value you placed on our friendship. I want the truth, Rosaline. What is going on with you?" 

"It's none of your business," Rosaline muttered, frustration welling up inside of her at how easily the ghost could see right through her falseness as though she were just as transparent. It seemed to be a common trait amongst the spirit world, and it was one that Rosaline had not and was not finding to be an enjoyable experience at all. 

The Grey Lady didn't reply, and glided over to stand in front of the witch, her insubstantial body severed at her waist by the writing desk. Rosaline watched with puzzled eyes as the spectre reached forward and lightly took hold of her hands, sending a wave of cold through her veins that made her shiver, and made her throat close up with disconcerting memories. The ghost turned her hands over so that they faced palm-up, and raised them slightly so that the sleeves of Rosaline's robes fell down to settle in the crooks of her arms. "Do these have anything to do with it?" the Grey Lady cynically queried, disgust tarnishing her strange voice. The witch looked down and, realising what the ghost was talking about, snatched her hands away and quickly pulled her sleeves back over her wrists. 

"No," she said forcefully. "How did you---" 

"Professor Snape was kind enough to inform me of them," the Grey Lady answered her before she had a chance to finish. "It makes one wonder how he would know about them, especially since you loathe his presence so." There was a note of sarcasm in the phantom's tone that seemed to imply the exact opposite, though Rosaline was barely listening and didn't catch it. 

"Snape...how did he...I never..." the witch trailed off, anger and confusion bubbling up inside of her like a boiling cauldron. "That _bastard_..." 

Apparently, the Grey Lady wasn't listening much to Rosaline, either. "How could you do a thing like this?" she demanded, her voice rising furiously. "How on Earth could you ever want something like this?!" 

"It was a long time ago," Rosaline maintained. "I was feeling---" 

"No, you weren't!" the ghost exclaimed. "You couldn't have been feeling anything at all to _want death_! It is one thing to be killed, to have death forced upon you against your will, but to try and take your own life---something that precious---and you have _no idea_---" Rosaline had never seen the Grey Lady so incensed before; the spectre was so upset she could barely speak. "How could you possibly _long_ to _die_?" 

Rosaline herself had no words to contribute, so stunned was she by the Grey Lady's outburst. Truthfully, she had never given much consideration to the fact that her childhood friend had indeed been murdered at the age of seventeen simply to set an example. They had never spoken of it much, and Lady Jane often tried to make light of her situation; the full weight of what had happened to her, the unfairness of it, and the tragedy, had never actually sunk into Rosaline's head until now. She felt as though she should apologise---but for what? For not considering the feelings of a ghost that, at the time, she had not seen in over four years? No. She would not allow herself to be painted as a villain for that. 

"Because then," she slowly explained, "death was preferable to the things I felt in life. I _did_ feel---gods, you have no idea how much I felt---and I wanted to stop. I didn't want to feel anymore. I _know_ it was a selfish thing to do, and I'm sorry that it bothers you so much, but as I said before, it was a long time ago---" 

"You think you would have ceased to feel in death?" the Grey Lady interrupted her. "You spent seven years in my company and believed that _death_ was the solution to whatever problems you were facing? That death was the solution to---to _anything_? If you were so unhappy in life, what in the world ever made you think that that pain so selfishly dealt with would have allowed you to be free of it in death? What made you think that you wouldn't..." She paused, swallowing down a hitch in her voice that signalled the onset of her ethereal tears. "...that you wouldn't end up like me?" 

Rosaline shook her head. "I was stupid; I know that now---_now_. I moved on, and I let it go. It's in the past---" 

"The past? You let go of the past? I would very much like to know how. Everything we do is shaped by what we have done before, and what has happened before in this world---_everything_. Is that what you would have me do---forget the past? I cannot. No one can. The world is shackled by the past, Rosaline. You teach _history_, for Heaven's sake, how could that knowledge possibly escape you?" 

"It hasn't," Rosaline snapped indignantly. "Believe me, Lady Jane, it hasn't." 

"Then tell me something. You longed for death once---tell me, and tell me truthfully: do you long for it again?" 

The History of Magic professor stared up at the spectre, who stared back with a hard and imploring silvered eyes. "No," she answered, trying to force all of her conviction into her tone, and perhaps coming across as though she was trying to convince herself as well. 

The sceptical look returned to the Grey Lady's face. "No?" 

"No." 

"You didn't sound so certain that time." 

Rosaline opened her mouth to argue, but the ghost spoke again before she could respond. 

"You tasted death once, but have you ever tasted that which follows? What would have become of you? What it is to be a ghost, a soul trapped not by a body, but by woe, by sorrow?" 

Yes! the witch wanted to scream, so badly she had to bite down on her tongue to keep herself from shouting the word in resentment. Instead, she did nothing more than remain completely still---_Still as a corpse._

"Do you wish to know what it feels like to be nothing more than a wisp of breath caught in a glass jar? Do you want me to show you?" 

Rosaline blinked, bewildered and suspicious at the phantom's words. Her hands balled up into nervous fists, and a foreboding feeling tightened in her throat. "W-what---what do you mean?" she asked, dread creeping along her skin like prickly caterpillars. 

Wordlessly, the Grey Lady floated forward and, before Rosaline could realise what she was doing, slipped beneath the witch's skin. 

Rosaline gasped in shock at the sudden wave of cold that embedded itself deep within her breast, deep within her stomach, like she'd been thrown into a bath of ice water and had forgotten how to both breathe and hold her breath. Her throat closed up, and a sharp, frozen pain scratched and crawled along her muscles. She stilled, waiting for the ghost to continue her journey and float through her back, but the cold did not lessen. The Grey Lady did not move from her space, did not cease in her task of turning her host's very soul to ice. 

"Stop..." Rosaline choked out, her voice small, almost a whimper. Her joints ached with the persistent winter that seeped into her bones. This was unlike any possession, this raw, uncontrolled frost that bit into her eyes, her lungs, her heart. The only familiarity was that of the sense of being invaded by a foreign psyche, not manipulating her emotions or her actions, but ruling over her body just the same, infecting her like a disease. And oh, it hurt---it hurt, and the pain would not pass. "Let me go," she shakily pleaded. Her vision was beginning to darken---could this kill her? Or was she simply closing her eyes? "Let me go..." 

"This is what you wanted, is it not?" The Grey Lady's calmly mocking voice echoed strangely somewhere between Rosaline's throat and ribcage, making her feel sick. 

"Let me go," she ordered, panic infusing her words and making them louder, shriller. "Let me go!" 

"_This is what you wanted_," the ghost repeated, anger twisting her speech into an unearthly hiss. 

"Let me go!" she shrieked, straining against her own body to move, but the cold was too bitter, too deadening, and she could do nothing but shiver. "_Let me go_!" 

At last, the spectre obliged, swirling like a glacial wind as she glided through Rosaline's spine and out her back. There was a split-second of numbness, followed by a slow flood of blistering heat at the sudden absence of ice, as life scraped its way back into the witch's flesh and bone. She winced and slumped forward in her chair, tightly folding her arms and hanging her head before the blindness of relief faded and gave way to lividness. 

"Get out," she muttered through clenched teeth. 

All was silent for a moment, but Rosaline could feel that the Grey Lady's chilling presence had not left the room. 

"...I only gave you what you wanted," the phantom murmured slowly, and Rosaline stood and spun around, knocking her chair to the floor in her haste. 

"I did _not_ want that, and you damn well know it!" she yelled, flushed and trembling in fury. 

"Then explain yourself!" the Grey Lady retorted, just as vociferously. 

"_You_ explain yourself! How could you do that to me?!" 

"How could you do it to yourself?" the ghost bit back. Rosaline glared at her in disgust. 

"Is that all you care about?" she spat. "A decision I made five years ago that had absolutely no impact on you? It was a bad decision, yes, but it was _mine_---_my_ life. You had _no_ right to do what you just did to me, _no_ right to hurt me like that! Is this all more than seven years of friendship means to you, that you could just---just _violate_ my body like you did out of---out of---_why_ did you do that to me? What reason do you have to be so angry with me about something so damn..._trite_?" 

"Life is _never_ trite!" the ghost shouted, forgetting her regal sensibilities. "_Never_! And if you would treat it as such then you are undeserving of it!" 

Rosaline gaped at the Grey Lady, slightly stunned by the spectre's confession. "Is _that_ what this is about? You feel I don't deserve to live?" 

"No, that...that is _not_ what I meant---" 

"You're jealous, aren't you? Jealous that I still have the choice of whether or not I want to live." 

The ghost sighed in exasperation, one hand flying unconsciously to the ribbon encircling her throat. "I---I only want..." 

"To live again. There seems to be a lot of that going around," Rosaline bitterly snapped. 

"_I only want_," the Grey Lady said again, her eyes flashing in annoyance at being interrupted, "to make sure that your life does mean something to you. It really is so precious, Rosaline, and it can be so short. You've been so sullen lately, and I worry. I _worry_ for you. People cannot afford to simply let it drift away. Embrace life and never, ever take it for granted, because you will never get a second chance at it." 

_Were that but true._ "So that's it? Couldn't the pretty words of wisdom have been bestowed _without_ the hypothermia? Or did you just toss that part in for your own personal pleasure?" 

"I was only trying to show you---" 

"I do not need to be shown! I have _seen enough_! Too much, in fact, and I can do without you trying to inflict the moral of your tragic demise upon me along with everything else! All right? Have I made myself perfectly clear, or do I need some sort of morbid demonstration in order to get my point across? Oh, wait, I can't do that---you'll _worry_ for me, and we can't have that, now, can we? Heavens forefend if my personal affairs inconvenience you in any way." 

"You would rather I not concern myself with you at all?" the ghost enquired, masking hurt with sarcasm. 

"Yes, please!" Rosaline exclaimed, sighing as though their argument had finally reached a breakthrough. "Bloody hell, I just want to be _left alone_! Why is that so hard for everyone to accept?" 

"Because they care about you!" the Grey Lady snapped before turning to go, pausing only once to glance back over her shoulder for a final contemptuous remark before she disappeared through the wall. "Thank God I no longer have to." 

It was a cruel comment, and it delivered every ounce of the sting that it had been intended to, though Rosaline was still too infuriated to take note of the wound. For a long while, she simply stood there, breathing slowly in an attempt to compose herself. She couldn't allow herself to become any more upset than she already was. She would only end up working herself deeper into frustration, and that couldn't happen now. She had too much to do, and more important things to work through. 

It felt strange to her, the knowledge that, given such a ripe opportunity to spill her secrets to the one person she had pondered divulging them to in the first place, she truly hadn't wanted to. It was an almost protective urge, to guard that with which she had been entrusted and keep it under lock and key. So whose urge was it? Her own? Ravenclaw's? 

Snape's? 

Rosaline couldn't be entirely sure of the extent of whatever "link" they shared, or how heavily one's influence weighed on the other's. She could feel him, that much she knew. His presence would drift over her in soft waves, sometimes so gently it would escape her notice completely if her attention was focused elsewhere. It was strongest, of course, the closer she was to him, like the pull of a magnet. She wondered if he could feel it, too. No doubt he found it just as disconcerting as she did, if he could. Is that how he knew of her scars? 

If only he would allow her to speak with him; there was so much she wanted---_needed_---to find out. It was pointless to keep what knowledge one might have from the other. They were never going to solve anything unless they cooperated with each other when they were not being forced to. 

_What is there that needs solving? You know who the spirits are, and you know that they are too strong to be vanquished. What else is there for either of you to do except allow this to run its course?_

But Rosaline didn't know how long that would take, or what precisely it implied. She did not like Snape, and she had no desire to be his friend, let alone his lover. If it weren't for Slytherin's influence on him, she might have believed him physically incapable of things like friendship and love, basic humanity. She had yet to come across an instance when he was completely without hostility toward anyone or anything, except perhaps his beloved potions. Rosaline loathed potions; she had ever since her school days, when Professor Asper, then Head of Slytherin House, had been the mistress of the subject. More often than not, they smelled awful and tasted worse, and with her unsteady hands it was a rare stroke of luck that she managed to measure out her ingredients correctly. It was no wonder that she and Snape were such a noxious amalgamation. 

With a heavy sigh, Rosaline returned to the writing desk and plucked Bell's assignment off the floor, hoping to lose her mind in her work, though both it and her concentration were elsewhere at the moment. She glanced over her shoulder, knowing full well that the Grey Lady would not be paying her another visit that evening, but a few traces of ice still lingered in her chest and suspicion nestled near them regardless of logic. _So that's what they mean by "bitter cold."_

Shivering at the memory of the feeling, she picked up her quill once more and began to sift through the fourteen-year-old's loopy handwriting. Outside, another bolt of lightning illuminated the darkening world, followed by a wave of thunder a few seconds and a thousand years later. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The storm raged well into the evening and night, and wasn't expected to lessen until the next morning. Severus listened to the rain pelt against the solitary slender window in his private chambers as he lay in his bed, caught in the peculiar place between sleep and awake, where lucid dreams patiently wait for their cues. 

Snape was not dreaming, not even in the lucid sense. He didn't know how long he had been laying there, his eyes open yet unseeing, staring up at the blackness of his canopy; he didn't care. The atmosphere was violent tonight, and he clung to the stillness within his rooms, as though he could weave a protective web of calm and tranquillity if he kept his breath silent, and his body motionless. His heartbeat was slow, and his skin cool from the night air. If he resembled a corpse long enough, he would be passed over tonight, and left to rest in peace. The dead did not inhabit the dead. 

But as the minutes wore on, he could feel the cold weight of steel grow steadily heavier on his limbs. The phantom chains that bound him now would not be so easily fooled. He pondered briefly if they would raise him up in the air to be whipped. A sharp crack and a faint scream echoed in his mind, and the drawn curtains surrounding his bed rustled in a soft, icy breeze. 

"Sev-er-us..." 

Snape turned over on his stomach, his fingertips biting into the sheets as if that alone could hold him to his bed. "_No_," he whispered, and shut his eyes like a frightened child who's all too aware of the monster creeping---slithering---across the floor, already salivating at the prospect of such a defenceless meal. 

"Sev-er-us..." The voice was raspier this time, more commanding. He could feel his will beginning to dissipate from his body in the form of a cold sweat, and the new, wraithlike presence slip within him in a quiet growl of breath. A strangled gasp escaped his mouth, "No," but it was in vain. There was no stopping this parasite from leeching off of his soul. 

He was trembling, every inch of flesh and bone straining against the foreign entity as they simultaneously absorbed it. He twisted around, first turning on his side and then onto his back, and arched up until he was pulled, his spine curling forward until he was sitting upright. A blinding fissure of lightning lit up the room, banishing what little was left of his own consciousness with its searing burn against his eyes. A second eerie scream rode atop its accompanying thunder. 

Salazar smiled. 

He craned his head, cracking his neck, then slid from the bed and to his feet. Inhaling deeply, he savoured the wicked symphony resonating throughout the dungeon halls, as though the sound alone was enough to infuse his body with the power that was exuded from human desperation. He clenched his fingers into fists, stretching and testing the lean muscles of his arms, and rose up on his toes as if he expected the air to simply take him high as he willed it to, like a cobra poised to strike. Releasing his breath slowly, he lowered himself back down to the ground, then made his way toward the door. 

He did not need his eyes, much less the torches mounted on the walls that lit up as he passed by them, to see his path, nor his ears to guide him. He had travelled this route many times, and could have walked it in his sleep. Out of amusement, he allowed one hand to trace his course in the wall as he sauntered onward. The texture of the cold stones against his fingertips was strangely comforting, and he had the distinct feeling that it had been too long since he had observed their craftsmanship, and the time and care with which he had conjured and constructed every one of them. Still, they felt new, as though every blemish had withstood the trials of time, resisted the wear that turns sharp to soft, and rough to smooth. 

He pulled his hand back when the pads of his fingers began to numb. 

Pausing at a juncture at the end of one corridor, a small smirk touched his lips as he glanced left, then proceeded right. She would be righteous tonight, with the screams as loud as they were. 

Another right, and then a left, and he arrived at his destination. She was already there, of course, lingering near the door with her back to him, poised tentatively on the balls of her bare feet as if she were preparing to take flight. Silently, he padded toward her and leaned close, his body a mere fraction of an inch from hers. He ran a hand along the line of her hair, not quite touching the smooth strands, but outlining their waves in careful, deliberate motions. He stopped when he reached the ends, and gently ran a solitary finger along the small of her back, grazing the cloth of her corset so lightly she took no notice of the simple touch. 

"The dungeons are no place for a lady," he hissed, and delighted in her small, startled jump. She spun around to face him accusingly, but the look quickly melted away into a carefully schooled impassiveness. 

"No," she agreed, a beguiling glimmer in her eyes, like a lightning flash seen from beneath the surface of the ocean. "Shall I leave, then?" She began to brush past him without waiting for his answer, and he caught her by the wrist, holding her in place against him. Another strangled shriek resounded through the door, and she shivered against him in revulsion. She'd always hated the screams, and blamed him for her queer addiction to their guttural despondency. Such strange and repulsively alluring sounds. 

He tilted his head to place what might have been a chaste kiss on the curve of her shoulder, if he hadn't tasted her skin with a deft flick of his tongue before pulling back, ever the serpent hiding beneath the flower. "No," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "I think I would much prefer you here." 

She turned to look up at him questioningly, but he silenced her before she could speak, claiming her mouth with his own. Her lips parted slightly, and he took full advantage of her surprise, sweeping his tongue along hers as he wrenched her closer to him. Amidst a fresh chorus of screams, she responded, one hand encircling his neck as if to garrotte him, the other sliding around to drag her nails along the heated skin of his back. He shuddered and took a step forward, pressing her firmly against the stone wall that he now recalled with great admiration. Deftly, he untied the pale ribbon that held her corset together, and unlaced the wretched garment just enough so that it fit her loosely. 

She hummed a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands journeyed beneath the constricting fabric until his arms were wrapped around her, holding her flush against him. The sound mingled pleasantly amidst the din of torture; she did have a lovely voice, and its pitch was perfect no matter the word, lyric or cry she was given to match. 

The cool, sweet taste of rosemary lingered on her skin---_For remembrance, _he recalled, and knew that in a thousand years he still would not be able to forget her, when both their bodies would be long delivered to the earth. Rosemary would grow on her grave, and merrily scent the weeds that would likely grow on his. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the gentle fog to sharpen his senses as he trailed his lips down the white flesh of her throat, and his hands down the soft arc of her hips. She arched toward him, pressing her body into his as she scraped her fingernails lightly down his sides, curved their path toward his stomach, and he could not suppress the pleasurable tremor that shuddered through him. 

Her blue eyes were liquid and dark and shining in the torchlight, rivalling the storm that echoed throughout the more exposed portions of the castle, and he felt as though he were a man dying of thirst placed before an oasis, half mad for the intoxicating drink to be found in her body and in her breath. In ancient times, the breath was thought to contain the soul, and hers was now brushing against his lips in small, warm clouds in the frozen dungeon air. He kissed her deeply, and devoured it. Even after all these years, that light still shone inside her, that strange sense of innocence that never seemed to fade, even in passions such as this that might have marred any other woman as a whore. But she was no whore---she was his and his alone. He had been her first lover, her only lover, and that glorious light within her was like a treasure he enjoyed the thrill of stealing over and over again, every time he took her. And perhaps what enticed him most of all, was that she took as much pleasure in being his victim, as he took in being her possessor. 

With a predatory growl, he pushed her back, crushing her against the wall, loosening her soul from the cage of her ribs and savouring its sweetness. His lips and teeth marked a pinkening trail that led from the shadow of the place where her collar bones met, down to the tops of her breasts that rose and fell with growing fervency under the skilled administrations of his hands, which by now had begun to travel the lines of her body, tracing every curve, every plane of her. One long, slim leg rose up to wrap around his hips in a silent, feverish plea as the melodious shrieks resonating out from the chamber began to heighten in their intensity---or was that merely his own mind screaming for hers, or vice-versa? Either way, this symphony would not be content to languish away its dungeon fate. It demanded a crescendo as ardently as his own body ached for one. 

The sound of her skirt ripping up the seam that contoured her left leg was lost among the chantings of the greater screams and lesser sighs that filled the torchlit corridor. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Gilderoy Lockhart strode importantly across the Entrance Hall, his oddly coloured (not quite pea soup, not quite lime) robes flapping importantly behind him as though he had attempted to train them to billow, but had settled instead to draw attention to himself through their colour, rather than their disposition. As it was, their sour green state was somewhat reflective of their wearer's mood---following the Creevey boy's Petrification, Dumbledore had pushed back the starting date of the Duelling Club by nearly a month. What point there was in doing so, Gilderoy did not know. The more self-defence he could teach the students', the more likely it was that they would not be on the receiving end of the same fate that had befallen the eleven-year-old Gryffindor---at least, such was the case that he had presented to the headmaster. Personally, he saw it as something of a dig at himself. Perhaps he was becoming too popular amongst the children, and old Dumbledore was beginning to get jealous. Yes, that fit the bill quite nicely. Dumbledore, aging and with so very little credit to his name---not once had he won _Witch Weekly's_ Most-Charming-Smile Award---and standing next to someone as young, attractive and renowned as Gilderoy Lockhart was bound to make even the most good-natured person at least a little bit envious. 

He had decided, without much thought, to go and see Professor Snape on the matter. Sure, the man was a Slytherin, but nowhere near as good-looking as Lockhart, nor as well-known, and Dumbledore seemed to take him seriously based on this fact. _How the noble must suffer in order to be heard, _Gilderoy inwardly sighed. Truth be told, he wasn't a fan of the dark and scowling Potions master. He seemed a bit up himself, and if there was anything Gilderoy could not stand, it was arrogance. But as he _had _agreed to assist in the Duelling Club demonstration, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor figured it was only fair that he do his part and protest the pushed-back starting date alongside Lockhart. They were partners, after all. Well, more like teacher and student. General and lieutenant, actually. Or maybe mother and son...no. No, no. That road only led to unpleasant thoughts. Gilderoy shook his head and grimaced slightly, showing more pearly white teeth than one would think possible to show in such a facial expression. 

Snape was a night owl, Lockhart was certain. The pallor alone would have been enough to tip him off---honestly, had the man never heard of Rudskin's Sun-In-A-Tin? A small orb of ultra-violet brilliance just waiting for one's personal relaxation and complexion correction for only sixteen silver Sickles per hour-long sun-bubble---but Lockhart had it on high authority---namely, his own, from a rather regrettable personal experience---that Slytherins in general were not creatures of the day. Surely Snape, with his nearly vampiric looks and matching demeanour, was no exception to this rule. Thus, Gilderoy entered the antechamber that contained the staircases that led down into the Hogwarts dungeons. He hated the dungeons. They always smelled queer, a bad mixture of potion fumes and damp rot. Definitely not an environment for the unfortunate souls prone to frizzy hair---one of which Gilderoy was unquestionably not, but he didn't want his robes smelling of anything other than Lyria's Lilac Rain for Wizards. The scent of mould was almost never good for one's public image. 

He decided to try the man's office first, and following that, his rooms. Gilderoy wasn't quite sure where the Potions master's private chambers were, nor did he particularly care to know, despite the inconvenience it currently caused him. But he'd be damned if he came all the way down here in vain. 

Stopping in front of the forbidding-looking door, Lockhart drew himself up (importantly), and knocked a pleasant little tune. Silence answered him in its usual mute tone. 

"Hello?" he called out experimentally; perhaps Snape simply wasn't in the mood for company, but if he knew who it was... "Professor Snape, it's Gilderoy Lockhart. Are you in?" 

Again, there was nothing. Gilderoy tried the door handle. Predictably, it was locked. He pondered using an Unlocking Charm on it, but stopped short. Despite his nosy tendencies, if Snape _did_ eventually turn up, Gilderoy wasn't so sure he wanted to have to face the dark man to explain what he was doing rooting around in his office. Even if he placed a Memory Charm on him, Snape was Slytherin, and possibly shrewd enough to put two and two together. 

The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor sighed and looked left, then right. The Slytherin dormitories were to his right; chances were that the Slytherin head of house's rooms were in the same direction. Still, the corridor was pitch black and empty, perfect for all manners of things to slither around unnoticed. _Buck up, old boy, _he told himself. _You're Gilderoy Lockhart. No man or beast is ignorant of your reputation, and no man or beast would dare think of attacking you because of it. And besides, the torches will come on as you pass._

With firm resolve, he started off down the dark hallway. 

And didn't turn twice before he was thoroughly lost. 

What had Slytherin been thinking, building these dungeons? They were like a maze. 

...actually, the more Lockhart thought about it, the more evident it became that a maze was _exactly_ what Slytherin must have been thinking. Secret chambers, hidden passageways, ten ways to get to one place and a dozen more ways to get lost trying to find it. It all would have been somewhat fascinating to Gilderoy, if his mind hadn't bypassed such intriguing details and gone immediately to "a thousand and one places to hide horrific monsters." Which, he was certain, there were, and gods only knew what sort of creatures a Dark Parselmouth would keep as pets. Gilderoy wasn't keen on finding out. 

Young children are often taught that, if they become lost, the best thing to do is simply to stay put and wait until somebody finds them. It was good, sound advice, and it made perfect sense to Lockhart. The trouble was that he was not a young child, and though he had no doubt that search parties would be dispatched by the hundreds once someone took notice that Gilderoy Lockhart had gone missing, getting lost in what was these days, for all intents and purposes, a school basement, lacked the sort of flair that would astonish and amaze the masses. Well, that problem was solved easily enough---he would lie about it. That only left the quandary of waiting. How long would he be trapped in here, if he truly were lost? He might very well starve or freeze to death before anyone located him. And his hair would look utterly atrocious while that happened. No, it would not do for anyone to see him in such a state, even if they were out to save his life. He would have to press on. _Every labyrinth has a centre,_ he told himself, which meant that, sooner or later, he would reach a destination, if not his preferred one. 

He'd only been walking for about ten minutes when an odd sound caught his ear, made him pause. Fear flashed briefly through him---_The monster._---but he forced it down with a rough swallow. It didn't sound like a monster. Indeed, if it was, from the muffled reverberations, it was far enough away that it probably didn't even realise he was there, and too...preoccupied...to notice him even if it weren't. 

His eyes shifted toward the dark recesses of the corridor he was standing in. Yes, the noises were definitely coming from his right, and there was definitely more than one voice. _At last, a sign of life! _he thought, and allowed himself a small, lascivious smirk at its apparent nature. Now that he knew he would not be left alone to rot in this vile place, his mind immediately switched gears, and his innately prying nature could not help but become a little giddy at the thought of eavesdropping in on whomever seemed to be having a much more pleasant time than he was. Being privy to the secrets of others was, in Gilderoy's opinion, never a bad thing, and from these two anonymous persons' chosen rendezvous point, there was no way that their liaison, whatever purpose it held, was not meant to be a secret. 

Slowly and cautiously, he crept down the corridor, keeping the light from springing forth out of the torches from a wave of his wand and a whispered incantation of "_Infusco Lux_." Upon reaching the corner, he stilled his breath, and peered around it. 

It was not the "what" of the situation that surprised him, but rather the "who." In the warm, shimmering torchlight, locked in a most intimate---and soon to be even more intimate, from the look of things---embrace, were the pale-skinned and dark-haired figures of Professors Snape and Rosebridge, two people Gilderoy would never have thought to place together on his own. In fact, the mere thought of linking Snape to _anyone_ romantically gave him a bit of a sick feeling in his stomach, especially linking Snape to the young witch currently pressed up against the grimy wall and apparently enjoying it far too much. Jealousy masked as disappointment slunk its way into Gilderoy's brain. It wasn't that he found himself particularly attracted to the History of Magic teacher, but she was...well, young, and she did have the potential to be pretty, if only she would do something about the lavender circles beneath her eyes, and perhaps add a bit of colour to her cheeks. She had a nice mouth, despite its present position of being thoroughly entwined with the Potions master's, and a dab of lipstick would have done wonders for its definition. And the hair---thick and wavy, but rather dull. Gilderoy knew of a hair tonic that could make it gleam brighter than the moonlight-drenched night sky, and it really was a pity... 

Anyway, the point was that she was young and reasonably good-looking, and one did not have to look far to see where the problem with this scenario lay: She should have wanted _him_. He, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's_ Most-Charming-Smile Award. There wasn't a witch the whole world over whom he couldn't have. 

So what on Earth was Rosebridge doing with Snape? 

Correction: _Why_ on Earth was Rosebridge doing what she was doing with Snape? 

And then it occurred to Lockhart---perhaps she _was_ with him, if only mentally. Perhaps she did want him, but considered herself too inferior to him to actually buck up the courage to approach him. She was a timid thing, after all. Yes, that was it. That had to be it. Because she felt unworthy of himself, she had taken to acting out her fantasies with Professor Snape, who, with his oily hair, sallow complexion and off-white, uneven teeth, was far less attractive than Gilderoy and thus probably something of an easy catch. _Poor girl,_ Lockhart inwardly mused as the Potions master suddenly pushed Rosebridge against the wall and caught her gasp in his mouth. 

Lockhart's eyes narrowed slightly. Piteous as he was wont to be on the lesser beings, the voyeur in him couldn't turn away from the sight of such unabashed passion. The other two professors' voices echoed strangely off the walls, sounding almost fragmented, disjointed, an ethereal sonata to their ardent motions, black and white and flame-red all over, like zealous demons. The sound of fabric being shredded rose up to join the fervent hisses and moans in song. Rosaline's corset slipped down her shoulders, her hands were hovering at the waistband of Snape's trousers--- 

---and then, quite suddenly, they stopped. 

It was as though time had frozen around them, and for a few moments, not even the air stirred. 

Snape tore himself away from her so swiftly, Gilderoy nearly jumped. The Potions master's breath seemed to return to him at the exact moment he turned away from the woman still leaning against the wall; it was quick, almost panting. The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor watched, bewildered and engrossed in the other man's perplexing reaction. It was almost seemed like he had only just realised what he had been doing. 

Severus braced himself against the wall opposite Rosaline. He was trembling, shaking all over, as if fighting his own body, trying to fight off his own desire that had so fiercely overcome him scarcely a minute earlier. 

The witch looked to be near tears. She was slowly pulling her corset back up with quivering hands. She looked weak, as though she might faint, or be sick. For a long while, neither moved, and there was nothing but silence between them. And then, in a meek, quiet voice that had Lockhart's ears perking up like a dog's, she spoke. 

"We...we h-have to see the...see the headmaster," she stammered, then drew an uneasy, composing breath. "Snape, we have to. This cannot go on." 

_See the headmaster? _Gilderoy wondered. _For this? A lot of help his old arse will be. ...eugh. _His nose wrinkled in distaste. Certainly there was a policy on sex of any kind occurring in the halls, even after-hours, and even so deep within the dungeons. One never knew when someone might come along and...interrupt, as his own presence so rightly proved. But just how morally moronic were these people to tell the headmaster of what they had nearly done? "We almost broke the rules and we thought you should know?" Or, "The bedroom no longer works for us; may we have a corridor of our own to shag in, please?" It didn't make any sense. 

"...we will not," Snape replied, equally quiet, though his tone was acerbic, biting. 

"Damn your stubbornness!" Rosaline shouted in a sudden burst of anger and frustration. Gilderoy winced---he hadn't thought it possible for her voice to become that loud. Snape whirled on her, stepping so close it seemed as though he would begin again with her where he had just left off. 

Lockhart watched the muscle in the Potions master's temple throb with fury. "_We...will...not_," he slowly hissed, his face so near to hers that their lips nearly brushed as he spoke. Taunting her, or perhaps testing himself. Or both. Gilderoy heard her exhale a soft, shuddering sigh that could have been interpreted as fear, or something else entirely. 

With a disgusted snarl, Snape pulled himself away from her once more and stalked down the hall, luckily heading in the opposite direction of Gilderoy himself. Rosaline waited until he had disappeared completely from view before she pushed off from the wall herself and began to slowly follow the dark man's path. The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor lingered behind, trailing her at a distance as he turned this new information over and over again in his mind. What was this secret that Snape insisted on keeping from Dumbledore, and how did it revolve around, of all things, what appeared to be a lovers' midnight symposium? Or were Rosebridge and Snape lovers at all? They certainly didn't act it---at least, not entirely, in both the physical and emotional sense. What was going on? 

Gilderoy Lockhart smelt a rat---about that there was no doubt, as they can smell their own. The question was, what type of rat _was_ Gilderoy Lockhart: A squealer, or a pack rat? 

This was going to take some serious consideration. 


	7. In Confessions

**Chapter 7 - In Confessions  
**

It hadn't worked.

The previous evening, following dinner, still upset over her argument with the Grey Lady, Rosaline had gone to Madam Pomfrey and requested a potion to help her sleep. She hadn't even finished undressing when she swallowed the concoction, and had scarcely managed to collapse onto her bed not a moment later. If it had worked so quickly, her last thought had been that it must work well---but it hadn't. It hadn't worked at all, and today she felt all the more tired because of that fact, groggy and dazed, drugged. She wasn't sure how she had managed to drift through her first two classes, and had been grateful when the lunch bell finally rang.

_Coffee,_ she thought to herself as she neared the staffroom, where the bitter solution was bound to be in abundance. Normally she would have preferred tea, but she needed something stronger, something that would ensure that she would not pass out in the middle of her next class.

The room was blissfully empty, and Rosaline allowed herself to slip into an unbecoming stagger as she made her way over to the percolater, tapping it once with her wand to heat it. She took down a random cup from the cupboard---McGonagall's, judging from the pawprints that continuously trailed around it---and, not caring about its ownership, filled it with the hot black liquid and took a long drink, grimacing all the while at the taste.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed, slamming the cup down on the wooden table on which the coffee maker sat. "Oh, that's foul. Now I remember why I never drink it."

Foul it was, but also effective. The taste and heat of the coffee had shocked her into a state closer to consciousness. She was beginning to loathe the thought of sleep altogether, almost as much as the thought of any food other than dry toast. She really did have to start eating more, to appease Filius, if nothing else. The tiny wizard was beginning to lose his subtlety in enquiring about her well being, and she didn't need to feel any worse mentally than she already did from having to continuously lie to the Charms professor.

Picking up the coffee cup once more, Rosaline slumped down in the nearest chair and took another long sip. Now that her head was beginning to clear, she half wished for the fog that had previously occupied it to return. A clear head meant focus, and her focus was, with the exception of when she was lecturing, directed to the more repugnant thoughts that incessantly floated around her brain. Memories, mostly. Memories, especially, of last night. What had nearly transpired in that filthy dungeon corridor...they had come too close, far too close.

And she had wanted it to happen.

_No. Not me. Rowena. She wanted... _the thought trailed off, and she left it unfinished. But even in abstract contemplation, she could still feel the phantom heat of him, of his hands moving over her body, the caress of his mouth against hers, the suffocating need he'd had for her, and she for him. It had been a while---and that was no excuse. These were not her feelings. She did not want Snape, and he didn't want her, either. _The only chemistry between us is artificial. How pathetic is that? _

Quite pathetic, she was certain. Pathetic, but strong. She had never desired anyone in her life as intensely as she had desired the Potions master last night, and it frightened her. The attraction still lingered in her veins, a subtle spiritual coercion trying to manipulate her into becoming a willing victim. Rowena apparently had a touch of cunning in herself as well---or perhaps she was simply following Salazar's lead. But if that were the case, then that meant Snape...

Rosaline felt her face go hot, and knew she had turned an unflattering shade of pink at the notion of Snape's residual feelings mirroring her own. It had been five years since she had last taken a lover, which was already proving to be quite the disadvantage; she briefly wondered how long it had been for him, then pushed the thought away. _Don't be ridiculous,_ she chided herself. _That's the last thing you need to be dwelling on right now._

...or was it? Physical intimacy was, after all, the largest problem they had encountered thus far with the possessions. If they were both feeling...repressed, so to speak, then it became more likely that they would actually act on the impulses they were being fed. _So what do you propose I do, then? _she asked her overactive brain. _Go out and have a quick, emotionally void shag with a complete stranger? If that's the extent of it, I may as well just shag Snape and be done with it. At least I know him. Sort of. Though he would never agree to it. Unless he's currently pondering the situation himself and reaches the same conclusion. Oh, bad thoughts...bad, bad thoughts..._

A vision of dark eyes, heavy-lidded and glittering in the dancing torchlight, hovered in front of her for a moment, sending a quiet thrill akin to fright throughout her body that welled up in her chest and made her heart speed up. She pushed it away. Those were dangerous eyes, the colour of the blackest shadows. The sort of shadows that demons like to hide in. Something sinister was napping within Severus Snape, Rosaline was certain of that much, though she did not know what. With him under the influence of Slytherin, with his wicked ways and Dark inclinations, she wondered how long it would be before it would awaken, and slouch, menacing, to the fore. She wondered what would become of them both if and when such a thing happened. 

A warning drifted back to her, _"It gives one cause to wonder precisely how long Salazar considered Rowena a traitor. Perhaps he believed her to be his enemy until his dying day."_

Sometimes, the most atrocious forms of hate are spawned from passion, from love.

"He didn't kill her," she told herself aloud. "Even the vaguest of history texts would have mentioned something as important as that."

_There is more than one definition of death, dear Rosaline._

"And what," she sighed, her voice quavering slightly, "praytell, is that supposed to mean?"

_Oh, nothing much. The truly dead, vampires, ghosts, spirits...it was but a simple reminder to you that there are different sorts of "dead," and you would do good to remember them._

"Ha," she snorted, her eyes rolling skyward. "As though I could forget."

_You could. You have._

"What---" Rosaline shut her mouth abruptly as the door to the staffroom creaked open. The brilliant blue robes that slipped in the next moment startled her nearly as much as the noise did. _Oh, isn't this utterly corking..._

"Ah," Gilderoy Lockhart flashed a blindingly white grin as he took note of her presence, and held himself a little straighter. "Professor Rosebridge, good afternoon."

The History of Magic professor contained a sigh. "Good afternoon, Professor Lockhart." _And it would only improve with your absence. Shoo, begone, you foul and waxy creature!_

Alas, Lockhart did not obey Rosaline's mental orders. Rather, he busied himself with the coffee pot, adding enough sugar to his cup (the purply one with the words _#1 Banshee Banisher!_ marked on it in large letters---"A gift from a loyal fan!") to weld one's jaw shut. Rosaline fleetingly wondered how he ever managed to keep up the whiteness of his smile, drinking a concoction like that, then decided that some things were best left out of one's imagination.

"So," Lockhart said jovially, slouching down into the chair opposite hers as he took note of her tired slump, "rough night?"

Rosaline narrowed her eyes slightly and stiffened a bit. "You could say that."

"Bad dreams?"

"...of sorts." Bad dreams, indeed. For once, she envied others that affliction; it seemed a so much simpler problem.

"'Of sorts'?" Lockhart scoffed, tossing his head back in a way that reminded Rosaline of an overly dashing swashbuckler in one of the cheap romance novels a few of the fourth-year girls favoured. "Either they _were_ bad dreams or they _weren't_...dreams."

The History of Magic professor was much too tired to attempt to figure out what Lockhart was on about herself---not that she didn't have her suspicions, and none of them bade well for the direction in which the conversation appeared to be turning. Nervousness and weariness had left her utterly exasperated with the majority of the world; the last thing she needed was to be exposed to the world's most exasperating man, especially if he was getting at what she thought he was getting at. _But how could he know?_ she asked herself. _We were alone...weren't we? That deep into the dungeons, how could we not have been?_

"What do you mean," she asked him, "precisely?"

Lockhart was quiet for a moment as if debating what to say. Finally, he set his cup aside and leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hands and regarding Rosaline with a look that was not possessed of his usual faux-modesty. "Precisely," he slowly drawled, and reached for one of Rosaline's hands, "I mean that the line between dreams and reality can become very blurred at times. Sometimes the nightmares can seem like fantasies, if one's will is strong enough to make it so."

The History of Magic professor tensed, and pulled her hand free of his grasp. "I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about, Professor Lockhart," she said quickly, her heart speeding up in her chest. Lockhart only smiled his rapscallion smile, his perfect white teeth looking like a shark's to her.

"There's no need to get flustered, my dear, I understand completely."

"Understand _what_? I---I don't know what you mean," Rosaline insisted, but the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor merely shook his head, his smile unwavering.

"I saw you together," he confessed, no small amount of amusement in the hiss of his voice. "You and Severus, last night, in the dungeons."

Rosaline's heart was now pounding fast as a hummingbird's wings as her eyes darted back and forth, searching for the words that had escaped her. "How...that...that is none of your business, Professor, and I can't believe that you would...would _spy_ on us---"

"I was not spying," Lockhart maintained. "I had merely come down to have a word with Professor Snape, and found the two of you engaged in an...intimate encounter, up against the corridor wall."

Panic flashed through Rosaline's mind. "How..." she murmured, her voice unsteady, "...how much did you see?"

At this, Lockhart tilted his head forward slightly, seriously. "All of it, Professor Rosebridge," he said lowly, confirming her fears. "Or should I say, what there was of it. Your disgust at what you were doing appeared to catch up to you in the nick of time, and I can't say I blame you. After all, why lower your standards, when you could have the best?"

With a frown, Rosaline stood and made her way back over to the table, cup in hand, under the pretense of refilling it. "Professor, I believe you are the victim of a severe misunderstanding."

"Am I?" he asked, his breath hot on her ear, and she jumped---how had he moved to stand so quickly behind her? "Dear Rosaline, I believe it is _you_ who misunderstands. I am offering you what many can only ever dream of."

She shuddered in revulsion, and when she spoke, her voice was hard and slow to leave her lips. "I can assure you, _Lockhart_," she muttered, spitting his name as though it were a curse, "that what you are offering me, I have _never_ dreamt of."

A low chuckle bounced along the skin of her neck, causing gooseflesh to rise there. "Don't be embarrassed to admit it. If you will have Snape, then you will have me."

She felt his fingertips graze along her arm, and spun around, tongue poised to tell him just how very _mistaken_ he was, when suddenly his lips were on hers in a harsh, graceless kiss. Her hands flew to his chest in alarm, pushing him roughly away from her.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she demanded, wiping the bitter taste of him from her mouth and grimacing. But Lockhart was apparently undeterred; all he did was bestow upon her a pitying smile and shake his head once more.

"Making your dreams come true," he said as though it were obvious, and advanced toward her. She pulled back, but found herself pinned between him and the table. Shakily and hurriedly she dug into the pocket of her robes for her wand, and gasped when he knocked it out of her hand just as quickly as she had extracted it. "No need for magic, Rosaline dear; I want to make certain you know that this is reality."

"Not reality," she said firmly as his head dipped to kiss her again, "but a bloody _nightmare_!" The last word was punctuated with a sharp cry that was not her own, and a knee that was her own making contact with Lockhart's groin. The blonde man staggered back, clutching himself in agony, shock plain to read on his face. Rosaline moved to retrieve her wand from the corner in which it had landed, but he reached out as she passed him, entrangling his fingers in the fabric of her robes and jerking her back. She was caught off-guard, and they fell to the floor.

"_Let go of me_!" Rosaline shrieked, struggling as he held her to him, his body still half-curled in pain. She arched back, trying to free her arms from where he had them pinned at her sides. Her feet kicked at his shins, but he somehow managed to avoid the blows.

"Damn it, woman, calm down!" Lockhart ordered, his voice ragged as he twisted, turning over on his side to more easily hold her down.

"No! Stop it! Get off of me!" she shouted, not ceasing her struggles in the least. Rosaline's mind was going a mile a minute, terrible possibilities flashes in front of her eyes one after another of what he might have intended to do her, right there on the staffroom floor, when he flipped over further so that he had her pinned completely, her left arm crushed at a painful angle beneath her. She cried out, trying to squirm her way free as he growled at her to shut up and be still.

Whatever he might have done, he was not going to get a chance to put that intent into practise. The History of Magic professor felt Lockhart's weight suddenly lift off of her, and turned herself just in time to see the blonde man crash over one of the chairs near the fireplace and into the wall face-first.

_But---who---?_

She scarcely had time to wonder the question when Snape stalked into her line of sight, advancing toward Lockhart with heavy steps and murder in his eyes. With an enraged snarl, he picked the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher up by the front of his robes and threw him once more across the room with an almost inhuman strength. Lockhart had not even finished uttering a pained groan before Snape was upon him again, crouching low and battering at the Lockhart's too-perfect teeth with his fists, over and over, as though he would never tire of it.

"Severus! _What is the meaning of this_?!"

Snape abruptly stopped his assault on Lockhart's visage, and three heads snapped up to look into the infuriated face of Albus Dumbledore, and the more concerned countenance of Filius Flitwick.

Dumbledore's eyes darted between the three of them, first at the bloodied and bruised Lockhart and wild-eyed Potions master, and then to Rosaline, still on the floor, dishevelled and cradling her left arm with tear stains on her cheeks.

Flitwick scurried immediately to her side. Rosaline thought she saw Snape's head give a slight jerk at the head of Ravenclaw's sudden movement, but she couldn't be sure.

"Are you all right, my dear?" the Charms professor asked, worry in his voice, as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She could only nod numbly, still processing all that had happened. "I'm fine," she mumbled, not taking her gaze off of the two wizards who had yet to move from their place on the floor.

"Professors," Dumbledore said sternly, power ebbing from his body in waves as he spoke. "Explain."

"It---it's not what it looks like, Headmaster," Lockhart croaked out, dabbing at his bleeding upper lip with his fingers while Snape at last moved off of him to stand in front of their employer.

"Is that so, Professor Lockhart?" The old wizard cocked a dubious eyebrow. "I daresay it can't look much worse. Now, would one of you be good enough to explain this current state of affairs?"

No one said a word. Rosaline's throat felt thick as the tension between them all. _No more avoiding this,_ she told herself firmly. _Forget about Snape, forget about Lockhart; it is far past time you told him what's going on. _

Swallowing roughly, she lowered her eyes. "Headmaster, if I may, I suggest that we move this discussion to your office to avoid any interruptions. There is...much that needs to be said."

Dumbledore squinted slimly at her, though she kept her gaze from meeting his. After a pensive moment of silence, he nodded once in acquiescence. "Yes, Professor Rosebridge. That sounds like a very good idea indeed."

~*~*~*~*~*~

They must have looked like a sight, she realised as she sat with her hands folded in her lap, journeying up to the headmaster's office. It was a good thing that the majority of the students were still in the Great Hall for lunch; gods only knew what sort of rumours would have been flying around the school by the time the bell rang if they had been crowding the corridors.

Lockhart's nose and bottom lip had yet to stop bleeding, and he touched both lightly with his handkerchief every so often, half concealing his red face from view. He had only just finished recounting his version of the staffroom transpirings, and Rosaline did feel the slightest bit sheepish after listening to his point of view---but only the slightest. After all, with him coming on to her a strongly as he was, saying the things he had said, how was she supposed to have known that his grabbing hold of her was only a reflexive action after she'd...er...injured him in the way that she had?

He'd reacted on instinct, he'd said, when he had kept her pinned down. With the struggle and fuss she had been making, he'd said he feared letting her go until he had a chance to explain himself, something he could not do with the state she had been in. In Rosaline's opinion, if calming her had been his intent all along, he certainly could have gone about it better.

Still, he was too embarrassed about the situation for his apology to be insincere, and she had accepted it, knowing that he cared too much about saving his precious face in the public eye to ever go near her with such sordid designs again.

Dumbledore dismissed the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor with orders to see Madam Pomfrey in regards to his wounds, then turned his wary blue gaze on the other three teachers occupying his office. The humour was completely gone from his aged face, and he appeared as some weathered stone statue.

At last, his eyes settled on Snape, whose mind was only partially present for the matter at hand.

"Severus, would you care to enlighten me as to why you felt it necessary to treat Professor Lockhart's face as though it were a steak that needed to be tenderised?"

"I was passing by the staffroom when I heard shouting," the Potions master said quietly, automatically, his voice strangely void of feeling. No contempt, no anger, not even boredom was breathed beneath his words. "I went to investigate it, and found Professors Lockhart and Rosebridge entangled together on the floor. She was obviously struggling against him, and so I thought it best to...intervene."

"That doesn't explain why you continued hitting him."

"No," Snape murmured, his eyes detached and distant. "No, it doesn't."

_Fury,_ his mind softly hissed. _A fury so pure I could have drawn sustenance from it and lived an eternity. Seeing him with her, forcing her...I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him. _

"Severus," Dumbledore sighed irately, "my patience wears thin. I realise you are not fond of Professor Lockhart---truth be told, the majority of the faculty shares your feelings of him---but that is no reason to fly off the handle as you did. You should have seperated them, demanded an explanation, and I know that under normal circumstances that that is exactly what you would have done. You were looking for an excuse to harm him, and---"

"It wasn't him."

The headmaster paused, and peered curiously at the source of the interruption. Snape, too, seemed to pull free of whatever daze had held him captive long enough to send her a sharp glare, warning her away from the subject he knew she was broaching. Gathering her nerve, Rosaline stared defiantly back at him, though there was something akin to apology in her eyes when she did.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and heaved a weary sigh. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to elaborate on that thought, Miss Rosebridge."

"I..." Rosaline began, then closed her mouth, suddenly at a loss for words. "That is to say, we---Professor Snape and I---we've been having some...rather out-of-body experiences."

At this, the headmaster leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and frowning in befuddlement. "Go on."

The History of Magic professor breathed a heavy sigh, and felt one of Flitwick's small hands cover one of her own in reassurance. She couldn't bring herself to look at the little wizard, all of the guilt she had been storing up now seeping fully into her consciousness. She hadn't expected it to be this difficult. She'd wanted to tell Dumbledore, had rehearsed what she'd say to him a thousand times in her head---so why was preperation failing her now?

"Possessions," Snape interjected, his voice low. Rosaline turned, startled, to face him, but his attention was focused broodingly on the red carpeted floor. "For the past two and a half months, Professor Rosebridge and myself have been sporadically controlled by entities contained within this school."

For a few long moments, Dumbledore only stared at the Potions master, his gaze flickering over to Rosaline only once. "Possessions," he repeated, a miniscule amount of scepticism leaking into his voice. "You mean to tell me, that since the beginning of term, the two of you have had your bodies taken control of---sporadically---by two spirits unknown?"

"No, sir," Rosaline said meekly, shaking her head. "Not...not unknown. We know who they are."

"Oh? Then it appears you have me at a disadvantage."

"Slytherin and Ravenclaw," Snape confessed with some difficulty, as though he had to force the words from his mouth. "The spirits are those of Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Next to Rosaline, Flitwick uttered a tiny sound of shock. "The _founders_?" he asked, his bushy white eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline, but his question went unanswered.

"Over two months," Dumbledore said, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this news angered him, "over two months this has been going on, and neither of you breathed a word of it to me? I don't understand---does the relevence of this situation escape you both? Spirits who have strength enough to possess the living are _dangerous_! Who knows what you might do while under their influence---the incident with Lockhart alone was..." the headmaster trailed off, realisation dawning. His eyes moved once more between them. "...ah. I see it now. The jealous lover. That is why you attacked Lockhart as you did, isn't it, Severus?"

Snape offered him no response, and Dumbledore took his silence as an admission of guilt.

"Slytherin and Ravenclaw," Flitwick echoed, shaking his head. "I would never have thought it possible..."

"Then you thought _wrong_," the Potions master snapped, rising suddenly from his chair to pace the room like a caged animal. "It is not only possible, it is _happening_, and we have no way to stop it."

"No way?" Dumbledore eyed the darker man like a hawk. "I assume that by that you mean you have tried everything, which is a lie, as you did not see me about it. Tell me, what is it that you _have_ tried, if you feel you have exhausted every possible way to overcome this."

Snape did not say a word, and Rosaline's response of having been given a sleeping potion by Madam Pomfrey the previous night was all but laughed at.

"_That_ has been the extent of your efforts? Good gracious, it's almost as if neither of you truly want this to stop happening!"

The History of Magic professor averted her gaze to the floor, but Snape was not so eager to admit his strange protectiveness of the spirits that inhabited their bodies by night.

"Headmaster, with all due respect, the solitary reason we haven't tried anything is because we are aware that nothing will work. The strength of these entities is...is beyond our control. Their influence over our minds extends further than the possessions themselves. There is no way other way I can explain it---we just _know_."

"How far?" Dumbledore asked, and Snape's head jerked slightly in annoyance.

"What?"

"You said that the influence this entities hold over your psyches extends further than the possessions themselves. How far?"

The Potions master's cheeks reddened in embarrassment and simmering rage. This admittance was what he had been dreading most. "...feelings," he spat, as though the word left a sour taste in his mouth. "Some lingering...attraction, I suppose is the word. Sudden bursts of memories that are not of this lifetime." 

"What sorts of memories?" enquired Flitwick.

_Screams in the dungeons, a rekindling thrill to inflict torture the likes of which I have not felt in over a decade... _

"Parts of the castle's construction. Flashes of the school as it was then. Altered surroundings," Severus answered, for he did not dare speak truthfully about the matter in Dumbledore's presence. Out of all of Hogwarts, Dumbledore alone knew the depths which Severus was capable of succumbing to, and he would not take lightly the risk of the Potions master slipping once more into such a severe sadism.

The headmaster looked charily upon the Slytherin head of house, and was about to reply when Rosaline spoke up.

"Excuse me, sir," she interjected quietly, "but I have a question which I myself have not been able to answer."

"Yes?" Dumbledore prompted.

"Why us? Why us, specifically, when there are close to five hundred Ravenclaws and Slytherins occupying the school?"

The old wizard looked thoughtful, and rose from his chair to stand by the window, as if he could read the answer in the glass. "A number of factors, probably," he finally replied. "Your houses, certainly, must have something to do with it. Perhaps your ages, and your stations as teachers here. But above all, spirits tend to possess those whom they see as reflections of themselves. Likely, you and Professor Snape have aspects of Ravenclaw's and Slytherin's personalities, the way they viewed the world, and the sort of people they were."

"But---" Rosaline began to protest, but was cut off by a silencing hand from Dumbledore.

"Even if you do not see these things in yourself, the potential for them must be there, somewhere," he said softly. There was a thoughtful note to his voice, but it was impossible to tell whether he thought good or ill of the implications such a fact contained. "Regardless," he continued, "it is of the utmost importance that you do not dwell on whatever similarities you may possess. You must remember that, a likeness in personalities or not, you and Professor Snape are not the same people as the spirits themselves used to be."

"Well there's certainly no trouble distinguishing _that_," Snape coolly remarked. "_They_ were lovers, we are not, and I for one wish to keep that difference intact, so can we _please_ get on with discussing how we can force this infernal situation to come to an end?"

Dumbledore frowned at the Potions master, a mixture of concern and slight surprise in his eyes. "Though your sudden eagerness may dictate a need for instant gratification, Severus, I'm afraid honesty will have to take precedence. Precisely how far have these possessions gone?"

For some few moments, silence reigned amidst its court of flushed faces and loathesome reluctance.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_A/N:_ A cliffhanger. Well, don't I feel wicked?

Apologies for taking so long with this chapter, but it was a difficult one. The next will be out much more quickly, I promise.

And many thanks to Fidelis Haven, Emily, Dahlia, Dana Ring---oh bugger it, _all_ of my reviewers thus far. You lot make me feel Encouraged and Inspired. :) 


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